November 11, 2002.11.11.02. - fingers [rune-imogen] *fv[north jersey]
(imgoen)
It's eight in the evening, and everyone has gone home, but for the security guard at the front door, and the cornishwoman in the morgue. It's monday, so the fact she was still there was not a surprise. Monday is the day of chaos, brought on by the weekend, and only one doctor on call, no autopsies performed unless absolutely necessary. Monday is the day where the weekends victims are brought into the light, their innards explored, their lives exposed. Garfield had nothing on the Monday blues in comparison to someone who worked in a morgue.It is not surprising that she's still here. On Monday, on any night. What is surprising as that she's not performing an autopsy, not perusing paperwork, but sitting at a rather cheap plastic desk in a room filled with refrigeratored bodies, small steel compartments.
It obviously isn't going to solve itself.
A weary hand rests on the desk, shoving the chair back, and herself up to her feet, as she leans over the cheap pseudo metal, picking up the phone. There's a sign beside it written in both spanish and english, Clean Hands Only, Please! a sign she'd seen a thousand times a day. A sign she saw ignored at least once a day.
The number is dialed from memory though she'd only heard it and dialed it once. A cell phone number for a certain glass walker.
She clears her throat slightly, one hand reaching up to pull her hair over one shoulder as she settles the phone on the opposite shoulder, pinioning it with her ear. Listens to it ring, fingers tapping lightly against the desk corner.
(rune)
Eight in evening. She's awake, at least. Like her packmates, Rune's schedule is more appropriate to a leech than a Garou: she's up all night long, and sleeps throughout the day. Decker's mess of discarded newspapers - the cross-word puzzle less than 1/4 completed - has been swept to the side, though not completely picked up. Rune is no great shakes a housekeeper, which is probably why she employs a cleaning service....wait'll they get a load of this place. She straggled back sometime in the middle of the afternoon with an armload of groceries and little else. The task of beginning to replace all that which needs replacing is daunting. She would prefer not to think about it, thank you very much.
Instead of thinking about it, she's curled in one corner of the couch, intent on the only remaining form of entertainment in the condo: the cheap video games loaded onto her cell phone. Aliens are dying by the score - have fallen by the hundreds - now that she has found the knack of the game again, so when the phone vibrates, she's loathe to let the game go. One more level, that's all she needs.
But the phone is insistent, and on the fourth ring, she gives up the battle, pressing the receive button and muttering a curse under her breath. "...yeah?"
(imogen)
It's an oddity for her to speak with the Ahroun female. She recognizes the car, knows her name, and lives next door, but cigarettes have been shared more freely than words. Of course, if she's speaking of oddities, until three months ago, she was avoiding the Garou altogether.What's normal?
"It's Imogen," she begins, twisting to leaning back against the desk, unraveling herself from the phone cord as she speaks, "I've got somethin' 'ere at the morgue that y'might want to see."
No elabouration. She isn't the most verbose person to begin with. And cell phones are rarely considered safe.
(james)
whatever portion of the couch the Walker did not take
the Gnawer lankily sprawled
having had his own versions of battles with the cell phone, after they had unpacked, sorted, somewhat cleaned, he succumbed to relaxation rather than distraction
one boot kicked up on the unused arm of the couch
the other having wandered to the floor at some point
half-dozing
half-listening to the slaughter of hundreds of aliens
arm cast over his face to block what little light there was
angled so they almost touchalmost
but it's still close enough for him
there's barely a change in breathing patterns at the muttered cursing answer(rune)
"Uhh, yeah," Rune replies, somewhat startled to hear Imogen on the other end. Still, there's no mistaking the lyric accent - what was that, Scottish or something? "James and I can get there. Do I know where the f - " the pause, and an unheard, rueful smirk as she self-censors the curse that wants to come flying out. " - where that is?"Uncurling one leg, she breaches the distance and pokes James awake with a seeking toe.
(imogen)
She is cursed with an accent not easily placed. At first she'd begun to be offended to be considered scottish. And australian. After two weeks in America, however, the novelty wore off.While impossible to place, her accent is most certainly memorable, a slow lilt and burr of her voice, silver Fianna's tongue shaped and moulded by a singer's voice.
"I can give y'directions." And she does, specific and to the point. Take the freeway to this exit. Go three lights. Turn left. County morgue. The sign is visible, the visitors parking is across the street.
A half breath of hesitation, audible as she red haired woman on the other end inhales, and holds her breath for a moment, before speaking once more. "I'm going to pass y'off as plainclothed cops." Dress appropriately, if possible. Left unsaid and unspoken. She needs to get them in, somehow.
(james)
have you ever had a puppy sleeping at your feet
after a long hard day of playing and romping and grrring
that you poked with your foot
and realized....that wasn't very effective
it's on the second nudge that he finally moves.... sorta
half tempted to mumble something in protest
but he's sense enough about him to know she's on the phone
answering instead with a looooooooong stretch to coax blood back into movement
half catching the last partplainclothed cop?
this should be rich
a part of him wonders if pulling off the K-9 unit would be easier
(rune)
"Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. We'll be there." another pause, brief and more than a little awkward. Silences - Imogen's, Decker's - make Rune quite uncomfortable, and she often prattles to fill up the empty spaces that lurk within awkward conversations. "Plainclothes cops. We'll be there. Thanks, and - see you soon."Click. The line goes dead, and it was a polite enough close, Rune decides.
He moves on the second - more violent nudge - as she digs her toes into the flesh of his thigh. Her foot remains there as he loosens and awakens, rides the long feline stretch that lifts his body in a rolling arc from the sighing leather couch, remains there for another half-a-moment as she finds captures his gaze and finds the half-doubtful look.
"Wake up, sleepyhead." Painted again, her mouth curves into a smirk that - perhaps - mirrors his response to the overheard half of the short conversation. "Imogen has something at the morgue that she wants us to see, and you've just been drafted as an officer of the peace. Or something. Any idea what plainclothes cops wear?"
They'll be quite a pair.
(james)
lips pull back in a playful growl
even if she knows its more of a smile
reaching to let fingers trace up calf of that lingering leg"Plain clothes?"
rich indeed
muscle in his belly bunching to sit up
thoughtful
standing
hand held out in offered help up"I doubt leather pants.... jeans should work, some run of the mill t-shirt, that suede jacket of yours...."
unoffered hand runs back through his dreads
they can pass for Narcs
the only snag would be official ID(rune)
She accepts his offered hand thoughtlessly, rising from her perch and flashing him another small smirk as she sidles by and circles the couch, then heads upstairs to change. Plain clothes indeed.Five minutes later, she head back downstairs, dressed in her oldest jeans - denim worn white at the seams, little threads trailing from the hems of each leg, dangling against dull brown boots, suede jacket tossed over a generic white t-shirt. It seems even Rune knows how to dress down. Keys grabbed from the breakfast bar jangle in her hand as she slips her wallet into her jacket pocket and waits for him by the door.
(james)
as she disappears upstairs
he's digging into his pack
way to the bottom
light gray long sleeved t-shirt replacing the regular tee
tucked in, a little wrinkled, but it'll do
probably the only thing he owns that isn't stained in some way
straightening up and dusting off the BDUs
too bad he doesn't own a belt
boots laced tight and neat
charcoal bandana tied to tame dreads just as her bootsteps return to himhe can't help that little grin
even dressed down she's.....yea.
he doesn't want to leave the sticks and coat at home
but he doens't have a choice
brows lifted a little as he joins her at the door(imogen)
The close was about as polite as she would be as she replaces the receiver with a dull click.The empty room, filled with empty corpses, and soulless cadavers, all but for the single heartbeat of the doctor within. Her eyes run down the impersonal and cold steel coffins that hold the bodies (three in particular) as they wait for justice. Or for a destruction of evidence.
A faint creak, a tapping, a scraping of something against metals; dark eyes, an extraordinary blue flick toward the left wall, staring in silence.
creak... scraaaaaaaaape.
Fuck.
She turns, shoving her hands into the pockets of her lab jacket, departing the room, walking down the corridor to the elevator. upstairs to speak with the hardly bilingual security guard in a queer mixture of cornish accented spanish and english. It's the incompetency that will work in her favour. The insecurity of the place she works in. The government has let things go, and those devoted to the dead are certainly the first to fall to the wayside.
(rune)
Even though the windows are still blown out (...and when will she ever get that fixed?), she pauses to lock the door behind her as they leave, lowered her head to hide the strange little smile that curls in response to his grin. It feels positively loopy on her face.Footsteps ring out on the steps as they clamber down: without the heels, she moves more quickly and more freely. Half-a-minute later, they're in the Beemer - this doesn't seem subtle at all - and five minutes later, they're sliding onto the freeway.
Imogen's directions are precise, and easy to follow. They should be, doubtless she can (perhaps does) drive the route in her sleep. Rune has not made the same study of the good doctor's hours as her packmates, but she must know - if only from the rhythm of Decker's life and the absence of the silver SUV on mornings when she stumbles in an hour after dawn - the hours the Kinfolk keeps.
They park two blocks away, in a mostly empty paid garage that leaves Rune uneasy to say the least. Every theft deterrant (including the Club) is put in place before the packmates begin the short walk to the morgue.
Twenty or thirty minutes, she said. Forty minutes later, they're climbing the front steps of the dilapidated Federalist-style building in which the morgue is housed. Rune pauses on the threshold, directionless, and flashes a glance to James, then paints on her most serious look and breezes through the front door to the guard station, eyes open for Imogen, trying to look as if she belongs.
(james)
he catches that strange little smile
if it's only in the way she ducks her head
if it's only in the way her cheek curves as muscle pulls
if it's only in the unconscious lick to smooth it awayhe's quiet throughout the ride
while he knows the Kinfolk's hours fairly well
he did spend all that time with her at the motel
he has no idea where they're going
partially not looking forward to it
even growing up in the alleys
amongst the guttertrash
the lowest of the lowno animal likes the smell of death
he doesn't have to act when that expression crawls over his features
when the different set finds its way across his shoulders
rugged, jaded, drawn, been on duty for far too many hours with too little pay
pretending the deathscent doesn't smack him in the face like a crowbar(imogen)
Dilipidated, grey, outdated and worn along the edges. The government building is not falling apart at the scenes but it is quite a bit worse for the wear than it need be. Colourless and lifeless. Somehow fitting for a morgue.She is waiting; Rune puts on a mask, to look like she belongs here. Imogen does belong here (though sometimes she wonders) and still, a mask slides easily as she walks toward both Gnawer and Walker, flat soled shoes scuffing lightly against the linoleum.
No jeans. Smooth dress pants hug her legs, and curve across her hips, a pale blue grey, accented by a loose blouse. The outfit would be completed stylishly, if she wore a suit jacket, but instead, that has been replaced by a lab coat with an identification badge pinned to to her lapel. Vibrant red hair pulled back from her face, in a tight, if sloppy bun, her chaotic hair unwilling to confine to the control that her position requires. "Thank you for coming," a smile slides across her lips, unnatural only because it doesn't seem like her. "You've already been signed in."
A job done for them, so their hand writing and finger prints aren't left on her official records. The humans official records. "Right this way, please." A slight gesture of a hand, toward a hallway, a motto written across the opening. Taceant Colloquia. Effuglat Risus. Hic Locus Est Ubi Mors Gaudet Succurrer Vitae.
Latin. Doctors always seem to be using latin. "Gracias, José," tossed over her shoulder as she begins to lead the 'police officers' toward the hallway, and the elevator at the end, hand reaching into a pocket to pull out a multitude of keys. One of which that will permit them into the morgue.
It's a different smell of death than what they're used to. Fresh death and blood. This is old death. Halted decay. Cold. Souls long gone, bodies vacant. Perhaps Imogen is used to it, that she can do this day in and day out. Or perhaps their noses are just more sensitive than her human dulled own.
The elevator door opens, and she steps inside, waiting for them to enter before closing it, turning the key in the odd looking lock as she touches the basement button. "There's no one else working tonight." She says inanely, though this might be of use to them.
(rune)
"Of course," Rune murmurs as they pass by the guard, dark gaze sliding over him without seeing (the trick learned at her Elders' knees), trained on the doctor's slim figure and the vibrant spill of hair at such odds with this drab gray place.The farther they go - down the long, draft corridor - the worse the smell becomes. By the time they have reached the elevator, Rune is breathing shallow breathes through her mouth, in some attempt to banish the scent that seems to have worked its way into the very granite of the walls.
She settles, back against the wall, eyes forward: elevator etiquette, and speaks only when the doors have floated shut and the old worn gears (is this thing safe?) have begun to grind. "That's probably good," her smirk is uncomfortable rather than knowing, awkward rather than sure. "...what was it you wanted us to see?"
(james)
that's what makes this scent worse
it is not the fresh steam that rises from battle's slay
there's no glory or regret that ushers the souls wherever they're supposed to go
it's the scent of nothing, here, and it's slowly growing
it's stagnant, halted, caught in a strange unnecessary limbo
it's the scent of empty, forgotten, shells
this.... is the death they all fear
to be nothing more than slab of meat to be studied and pondered
in the stale air of the elevator, his nose wrinkles
he knows it will only get worse in the floors belowuncomfortable at best
tense at worst
and damn well silent(imogen)
The smile has slid away, as she replaces the keys in her lab coat, as the door opens into another hallway. Bleak. There is no colours here, all leaked away. Grey. Dingy.Dark vibrant eyes slide to Rune as she speaks, her brow contorting into a frown as she looks away, starting to walk down the hallway toward the steel door that houses the dead. "A body. Or... what should be a body." A sharp exhale. Frustration rather than just a sigh.
Find another tact. Start again. "Th'Garou have been busy. This is the third body I've got that must 'ave been caused by a full blood in the last two days..." She pulls the door open with a faint woosh as the two atmosphere's equalize. Another step inside. Now there is more than just the cold death. It's cold blood, stagnant and putrifying. The air of the room is chilled, because it costs too much to refrigerate the bodies and keep the doctors warm.
"That's not the problem." She says after a moment, as she turns aside to let the two Garou in, "What I can't figure out is ..." a tightening of her mouth. "Why one of them isn't dead."
And what seems insane to her mind is said. The building had seemed bleak and colourless, but this is ten times worse. Nothing but grey in a dull monochrome. Steel, grey. Walls. Grey. Metal sink. Grey. Signs. White with black lettering.
Grey, grey, grey.
As quiet as a tomb. Dead as a morgue. All words to indicate silence. And for a moment, after the good doctor has finished speaking, waiting for a response, it must seem that silent. Then... a faint click. A sharp scrape. Perhaps they could tell themselves that it was something settling. Old buildings do that. Too rhythmic. Too solid. Far too there to be the building settling.
(rune)
Grey, grey, grey. Does Imogen know how she stands out here, a candle against the darkness? Even the Urrah Walker - who claims pride in her mongrel breeding - responds in subtle ways to the pure blood vibrant through her veins. Pure blood, vibrant eyes, tangled curls of bright red strands spilling from her loose bun.Rune absorbs the information silently: Garou are often busy. There is always another body. Only when Imogen continues do dark brows rises in the pale face. The surprised expression twists as the full force of the stagnant stench reaches her nostrils and she snorts out a breath in an attempt to clear her senses.
Rune's footsteps ring out dully as she steps into the chill room, the rubber soles muted on the polished floor tiles, a far cry from her usual clatter. She pauses to absorb the sound, and sucks in her lower lip in thought, staring at the bank of brushed steel cupboards in which the dead rest. At last, she turns back to Imogen.
"Which one?"
(james)
it's the best he can do not to vocally retch at the scent
swallowing hard to remind whatever's in his stomach to stay there
something primal in his mind screaming wrong! wrong!! wrong!!! wrong!!!!
focus on the problem at hand, James
not the scent
course, with what she just said, not that hard to swing his attention around fully to the good Doc
a brow lifts beneath charcoal bandana to hear that part"Isn't dea...."
whatever he was going to finish with cut off by the tapping clicking scraaaaape
it sends a chill rocketing up his spine
followed quickly by the raise of invisable hackles
(...... Taley-po, Taley-po, give me back my Taley-po.......)
flat out staring at the gray steel door it seems to be coming from behind
(...... you have got it, that I know, give my back my Taley-po.....)
he doesn't need to ask which one
he's already walking towards the far wall
shoulders twisted sideways
head canting at an angle
it's not that hard to see the rangey mutt in him
not in the way he so warily approaches
hand flattening on the steel door as if he could feel what's behind
tap tick tap
as if he were holding it shut from jumping out at them"Tell me everything you know about it."
(imogen)
The scrape sends chills down her spine, claws across the blackboard of her nerves. It's obvious too, with a faint close of her eyes, her hand reaching up to pinch at the bridge of her nose, replying to James, first."She was four years old. She was ripped apart in an emergancy room. She was apparently in an MVA... multiple vehicle accident; her parents are died. She'd been.. put in another room for a social worker." Another scratch of sound in the far left wall, and her eyes open again, shifting in that direction.
She'd been in here three hours waiting for the sound to stop. Three hours of the sound grating on her nerves before she'd picked up the phone and called. Three hours.
".... but." But. "What I have left is... There isn't much left, but all the injuries are postmortem. She was already dead..." scraaaaaatch "when she was torn apart. Except."
A hand movement, slow and eloquent, delicate fingers gesturing sharply toward the left wall, beginning to walk that way. "Obviously. She's still moving." A shake of her head, half muttered words under her breath, long vivid strands falling forward to obscure her face. "No heart to pump the blood, and she's still moving."
She has finished speaking, and one hand reaches out to grip the metal handle of one of the many compartments.
(rune)
"Don't open it." Three swifts steps bring her across, and her pale hand settles - staying - upon Imogen's shoulder. "Don't open it, Imogen. Step back."If the sound unnerves Rune, she gives little obvious sign beyond the short, sharp breaths sucked in through her mouth, pushes out her nose in her continuing attempt to banish the god-damned rotten scent of the place ( - how can she stand it? - ). The muscles of her jaw work slowly between each breath, grinding back molars together.
Leech. the word sinks soft into James' mind, the only immediate explanation that comes to Rune. Across Imogen's shoulder, her gaze flashes sharp and dark to her packmate.
"Across the room, the other side," Rune continues, her voice more quiet now, modulated into some sort of soothing authority. "Is there an incinerator in the building?"
(james)
she was four years old
step away from the door, James
please don't trip over Dr. Slaughter
she was already dead
shoulders rolling to force them to relax
his stomach wants to heave, and heave hard
scraaaaaatch
no, there's that chill having a rip-roaring good time up and down his spine
obviously, she's still moving
his head shakes to clear it
from the scents clinging to his sinuses
from the images mucking around in his head
from the me.... don't even go there
.... she's still movingRune's voice on Eagle's wings in his mind is only reiteration
at least the boy is learningjust.... on a whim
"What'd she... look like?"
before, obviously(imogen)
The hand on the latch falls away as Rune orders her. If she thinks you're wrong, then she'd fight back; however in this case. Out of all the things in the world she wants to do, she does not want to open that steel door.Metal scratches against metal, and Rune's hand rests on her shoulder for a moment, a faint stiffening of muscles as Imogen begins to cross the room to the desk in the opposite end. "I don't know," she says oddly, after a moment, and it must be difficult for a moment to tell to whom she's speaking. Rune or James.
Dark eyes flicker to James, "she's caucasion. But..." a hand movement, as she speaks, indicating a lack of knowledge, "There aren't enough body parts to... well... give me anything more. And I haven't seen any pictures. Hair was ... blonde."
Incinerator. Her attention turns toward Rune, as she takes two more steps, reaching the desk, and picking up a clipboard, as she answers, features expressionless. Shut down. Lock it out.
This is how she stands it.
"We have a crematorium." Never mind the incongruancies this will cause tomorrow. There are laws to be followed, and rules and regulations to which to align yourself. Garou laws. Human laws.
(rune)
"You don't have to do this." That's what Rune says, that's all Rune says, and the words settle into James' mind as easily as surely as they fall upon his ear. When Imogen slipped away - back, across the room, to the desk - Rune took up her place flanking the drawer, feet spread shoulder-width apart, hand settled flat against the cold metal handle.You don't have to do this.
Her free hand rises, pale fingers tucking dark strands that have fallen across her face behind the curve of her ear behind her ear, but her dark eyes remain on James' own, watching the subtle shift of emotions that play across his countenance. "We can get to the crematorium without being seen?" she asks, without lifting her gaze from James.
(james)
umber eyes shift to his packmate
remembering her words... how.... many nights ago?
she wasn't.... natural
there's something threatening to crumble inside of himdreads dance across his back as head shakes
"It will take too long to get her there, I don't know how much she's put herself back together.... if she even can..... we.... "swallowed, hard "...... need something to open the door and spray in there."
legends and stories are twisting in his mind
not sure which is truth and which is told to frighten a young cub
what mixes in dark eyes contradicts itself
I can't do this
a glance away, and back
I've done worse
most of all
I won't abandon pack
his voice is tight even if almost inaudible"What chemicals do you have that spray, Imogen? What's flammable?"
(imogen)
"There's no one here but you both, myself and the security guard." She answers Rune's question, "José never comes down to the morgue."James speaks, and she has nothing to add, one hand rubbing irritably at her forearm, and stopping abruptly, fingers reaching inside to touch the rents in her skin. The blood is long since dried and has gone unnoticed among the other smells of old blood, death and decay. After a moment, "There isn't much in there for her to... put herself together. What I had weighed much less than a kilo." Her hand leaves her forearm, sliding into the pocket of her labcoat. "It just won't bloody stay still, is all."
A moment of thought, her eyes darting across the room, and looking in the direction of the autopsy suite, invisible through the walls. Inventory. Inventory. "I have rubbing alcohol by the gallons. Ether. S'about it, really."
(james)
he does well to stop the visable flinch
less than a kilo
don't think about it, Jamey-boy, just do
common, what do you remember from your lessons
nodding to the gameplan so far
catching the lighter"Isopropanol, acetone or ether would work."
but you'd have to fashion something to spray it
and you just might be short on supplies
a glance to an empty gurney
..... ever been plagued by squeaky wheels?"Any WD-40?"
turning to look for a coverable bucket, preferably
scoop, plop, cover, run
seems easiest
woudln't have to feel it... her.... either(imogen)
"Cremated remains is easier to explain than using several bottles of alcohol being used, or WD-40." a glance at James, "It's all inventoried. If we had any WD-40 it would be in a maitenence closet. I don't have access to that." She would never use it. Doctors have other people to fix their squeaky wheels. Keep their doors from making a sound, disturbing their all important thoughts."I'll get the alcohol. I'll need to turn on the incinerator, too." It's off now, with everyone gone home but for one cornish doctor. Two Garou. And a security guard.
And one twitching should-be-dead body.
She turns on her heel, opening the door with a hiss of air pressure, and the chill of the room lessens for a moment before the door shuts again with a plastic thud of seeling air pressure. Two stops. First the retort, the incinerator. 1 700 degrees fahrenheit. That would take a while. But children's bones burn more easily than an adults, so whatever heat it reaches by the time they reach it should be sufficient.
The autopsy suite. Rubbing alcohol, taken from a below compartment, opened by one of her many keys. Shut. Her hand scratches absently at the side of her neck before turning on her heel, and back to the room where she'd left the two Garou.
Tap. Tap. A scrape of metal against metal. Nails against metal. Cold flesh against steel.
(rune)
Rune slides to the side, crossing to take James' place as he settles on the wastebucket. The door opens to the left; therefore, she wishes to be on the right. If scritch-scratching thing, inside the metal cubbyhole somehow comes awake, she will take the first blow and trust James to watch her figurative back. In most circumstances - decisions, choices, politics, punishments - she does not trust her judgment and will refuse whatever authority is given to her, but these are concrete choices, and self-doubt does not enter into the equation."I want you to open the door, James. I'll stand here and get it into the wastebasket." Ordinary words, spoken with minimal inflection and a cold efficiency, as much for Imogen as for James. Her packmate does not need verbal instructions, he will understand what to do. "Take the alcohol, and be ready. Imogen, please be ready to open the door for us once I have it secured, then lead us to the crematorium. Stay at least ten paces ahead. If something happens, run."
(james)
the sound just rides on every mother-loving nerve he has left
he can't help the glances back towards his packmate
do you think it's really.....?
not even said silently
it's just writ in his eyeshe moves in with the wastebucket
he stands in the place he's ordered to stand
gives what he's ordered to give
takes what he's ordered to take
bottle opened and ready
bic firm in his handlower lip draws between his teeth
snatching Rune's gaze
for just a split second
heldthen his chin drops
fingers wrapping loose around the cold handle
ready as he'll ever be(imogen)
Run.Much of life for a kinfolk is based around running. Run from the Garou. Back away from the claws and fur and rage and all the other things that come with it. Hide while others fight the War, decided only by a fluke of blood (ever wonder why?), genetics and spiritual power. She does not want the life that they lead, but the thought of running rarely sits well, either.
A faint flicker of thought runs through her mind. If something happens on the way to the crematorium, she'd have to go past the Garou to get out.
Details, details.
A faint slight nod, a set of the jaw. Noble blood, sometimes noble thoughts, sometimes noble actions. Sometimes brave, when circumstances let her. And so, she simply nods, striding toward the door to wait. A moment clouding of thought. "It's not the regular size of a body," she warns, "Not even a child's body. It's in pieces." No longer she. Depersonalization, started a little too late.
scritch scratch, scraaaaaaaaaaape. "An arm to th'elbow, seven ribs and sternum and most of what is left o' spine and it's hipbones." Scratch marks on her arm burn, a steady itching ache as they rub against light cloth of her blouse. "All beneath a white sheet."
Last bits of information she can think of to provide. Tap. Tap. Tap. Taaap. Taaaap. Taap. Tap. Tap. Tap. clank, shudder. If the creature somehow comes alive. There seems to be a very good chance that it already is.
(rune)
James captures her gaze, and Rune stares back several seconds longer than required. Whether he can find whatever he wishes to see her in dark eyes is an open question. Tonight they are hard as agates, and shine like polished stone.Her eyes half-close then, as she reaches for Eagle's strength. Perhaps James can feel the whisper of it, somewhere deep in his chest, the tug of the totem's power so near.
She positions the wastebasket beneath drawer, then - an afterthought - shrugs her suede jacket from her shoulders, peeling her long arms out of the sleeves and allowing to just sigh down her back to the floor before kicking it back and away.
Now.
(james)
there's something electric
the air crackles with Eagle's strength
the air crackles with their tension
the air crackles with the scent of stale cold death that will cling to them for days to come
the air crackles with..... whatever it is that he takes from her gaze, for those silent secondswhatever it is
its enough for himfingers tighten on the latch
this is the last thing I ever wanted to do again
muscle through his forarm flexing to tighten, taught and ready
she's not a child, James, she's not natural
lips licked as a shudder wants to weave down his spine
do you remember the last time you......
Cochran's brace
can you hear her voice, feel her warmth, and what was it she said to you that none else could hear
thighs tense
..... are you so sure you can do this again?
umber eyes cloud, jaw grits
how long will this one haunt you
the door pulls(imogen)
She's not a child. She's not natural.Pull. The door sucks open, a whoosh of cold air, as the scrapingtappingscreeching seems to reach a momentary crescendo (it can sense the rage, it can sense the blood). He must pull the gurney out, too, with it's white sheet, and as it creaks out, the smell of blood just became that much worse, old and decayed as the gore that is whatever is left of... whatever it was assaults their senses. The white cloth twitches and something falls to the floor (just waiting for it's chance) with a dull thud. A hand, it's tiny arm little more than a stump ending just above the elbow, it's fingernails ragged and spotted with blood and flesh, three nails a match for the three furrows in Imogen's forearm. A scapel sticks into the base of it's wrist, but somehow, unimaginable does not hinder it's movements as it drags itself forward by fingers and supernatural ability. Two other fingers twitch on their pallet, revealed by the half fallen sheet, slowly, like worms, twitching twitching forward.
The blanket tumbles the rest of the way to the floor, a flutter of sound. Seven ribs, she said. Each knobbed with cartiledge, twitching and bending impossibly (children's bones are always more elastic) as half covered in flesh bones try and follow the way the more versatile hand and arm had gone. Spine, still held together, impossibly, clacking together as naked hips arch crudly and do as best it can to reach the floor. All pieces working seperately toward the same goal of freedom and chaos and taint. Rune is too fast for it, however, and she'll win the race to scoop all except for the dropped crawling and twitching arm, which is trying to make it's rather determined way toward James' foot. Four year old hand. Four year old finger. White-blue flesh, almost devoid of blood. Unnaturally coloured.
She's not a child, James, she's not natural.
If it's a vampire they are much more powerful than they had thought. And they'd better hope fire will kill that thing.
Imogen stands by the door, and begins to draw it open. She has no desire to be in the way.
(rune)
She will not retch, now, though her mouth twists in revulsion and her stomach contracts sharply and her gorge rises and the stench of something far worse than old death assaults her senses. She will not retch, and she chuffs - oddly animal - air puffing her cheeks, with the effort to swallow the half-digested remains of her dinner which has lodged themselves less-than-pleasantly in her esophagus.The scrabbling remains scooped up (she does not look, she will not look, she must look), trailing shroud wrapped twice around them, are stuffed quickly into the trashcan, but the loud clatter of the lowered lid does not drown out the scrabble of the four year old hand, the four year old finger, across the tiled floor.
Rune falls to her knees - ducks beneath the jutting gurney - and dives for the scrabbling hand. She's aiming for the scalpel jutting out from the wrist, but blindly: she'll take whatever she can get.
(james)
something twists
she was just a little girl
something grinds
she's not natural, she's a monster, she's the WYRM
something breaks
remember what the Wyrm did to your little girl?
scent overwhelms
DADDY MAKE IT STOP!
he could never forget that, not now, not even rotting
he could never forget what taint feels like, crawling towards him
he could never forget what it feels like, even before it touches his skin, even before it comes close to his boot
not from something like he..... it.....
your. own. family. James.something shuts down
I will not back down. not. from. you.
the Gnawer takes a step
back
rotating on one boot to avoid the crawling (baby girl) hand
the drawer slamming shut
the door hitting it on rebound before it, too, closes with despairing finality behind the angry brunt of his weight
there's nothing in his eyes as Rune's fingers blindly wrap around the tiny palm
he doesn't hear the squelch of dead flesh
he hears someone crying, weeping years ago
he doesn't see the fingers convulse and grapple, progression stalled
he sees a pale hand stilling.... was it really that long ago?
and he hasn't moved yet
he has her back
he'll follow her out(imogen)
The wastebasket shakes and quivers cracking and twisting violently in Rune's hands as she drops to her knees, sliding beneath the gurney. Her fingers wrap around the scrabbling tiny palm, and she can feel tiny fingers close and open and take hold. Three fingers. Three fingers that grind her knuckles together, causing an unpleasant crack of flesh and bone (It's not broken, she knows what broken feels like, but bruised and cracked; not broken). Three nails, tiny childish half moons (nailpolish, a bright pink, still visible beneath the blood) find purchase against the fleshy part of the Glass Walker's palm. Ragged edges of fingers and nail dig into flesh, finding blood. Drip drop. Death drop. It burns and itches and aches.Wyrm. Wyrm. Wyrm.
When will you rage?She has to dent the wastebasket with the rest before the fingers finally release into the roiling and shuddering metal container. The finger marks on her still burn. But all pieces are in the basket, and the wounds are tiny.
The door to the outside has opened all the way, and Imogen has paused only for a moment to insure that they are coming. Then with a hard hand she shoves to insure the door stays open long enough to permit the Garou to enter the corridor without touching anything. And she's going down the corridor, flat soled shoes tapping rapidly as she heads to the other end where the crematorium room (and impending doom) stands.
(rune)
"Fucking. Hell."Teeth sink into her lower lip, biting off the grunt rushes out with in a sharp, sudden breath. There's another breath to steady herself, mouth pursing to aim the exhalation so that some of the hanging strands of dark hair are scattered away from her eyes.
It meant little, it meant nothing at all, until she glimpsed the bright pink polish on the tiny nails.
Rune rises awkwardly, the shaking, shuddering burdern gripped tightly in encircling arms, uninjured hand flat on the lid, then jogs after Imogen - rubber-soled boots slapping on the tiled floor - out into the hallway, ducking around the door falling closed, and down the long gray corridor.
(james)
fight it fight it
destroy it now!
a battle begins to wage within the Gnawer
yanked down and tightly controlled
how long will it last
pink nail polish sinking into fleshalcohol sloshes in the container so quick are his movements
following
backing
tracking
breath heaves in his chest
he wants to get this over with, and over nowhow long can you last, Jamey-boy, before what you fight for finally destroys you
(imogen)
Her lab coat flutters she deftly crosses the hallway, moving with an urgency rarely seen in a building where the patients are usually already dead.The crematorium.
So little colour. The crematorium is no different, with it's cement floors, and a factory atmosphere. There is no ceiling, only visible ducts and air conditioning pipes. The metal working innards exposed for all to see.
Toward the far back wall is the cremation chamber, created out of fired brick and cracked and dusty mortar. The metal door is shut.
Within, gas jets blaze fire orange and red and blue and white. 1 700 degrees fahrenheit. Silver begins to melt at 1650 degrees fahrenheit. Gold begins to melt at 1945 degrees fahrenheit. Brass? 1 810 degrees fahrenheit. Skin begins to melt, fat begins to boil and bones begin to char; at 1 700 degrees fahrenheit.
Imogen does not have the grace of the Garou. She does not have the power of the Garou. She's fast, give her that, and moving with an assurance, and a half grace born more of athleticness than ease of movement. Her shoes clatter against the cement floor as pale hands grab hold of the twisting wheel of the door. Spin. Spin. Spin. She's pulled it open before, so the effort was expected. Pull
The door swings open and the roar of the contained fire fills the room with a blast of heat. It will burn to throw the objects inside. It will hurt Rune's skin. Like all her People, she will heal. The pain will be momentary (three tiny little puncture marks at the base of her palm -itch-), and she will get over it, forgotten in the face of greater dangers; greater pains.
But first, she must brave the heat of this fire. Throw in this victim of a long war. (sometimes it seems like there is nothing but victims; even those that fall, with tiny little half moon nails painted with bumblegum pink are victims) End the battle for this moment.
(rune)
The heat of the blaze takes her aback. For half-a-moment she stands there, staring blinding into the passion play of light within. Someone told her - some teacher blathering far at the front her junior high class, some science geek packmate, ignored in favor of other more immediate pleasures or pains - someone told her one what the colors of flame mean: the temperature differences between yellow and red, orange and blue and white, and the thought flits across her mind now, as she faces the fire.She didn't listen the first time, and she cannot remember now. She cannot discern where the heat fire blazes or where it merely (merely?) smolders, but she seizes upon the memory to distance herself somehow from the primordial fear of flame that stirs, to force herself close the distance and shift her rattling burden forward, to hold the trashcan closed until she is at the mouth of the oven and the tiny hairs on her hand and forearm are crackling with the heat, and the skin is beginning to pinking and burn.
Half an inch back, she leans (rage now lending speed to her movements) to lift the lid free and tilt the trashcan upward, to send the child's bones falling end over end over end into the hungry flame.
(james)
it's a long long walk off a short short pier
twisting through the tunnels, the dungeons, the inner labyrinthine maze
remember your history lessons, James?
do you remember the others that have burned?
in fire and brimstone, in raining balls of blazing death, in the ruthless chambers of Germanyjust who's holocaust is this, anyway?
if the scent of death was bad
this is worse
far worse
there, the bodies were slabbed, studied, dissected beneath science's uncaring eye
here - what remained of life was destroyedno evidence
no memory
no thing will surviveanimals fear the gag reflex of old death's stench
animals fear the raging fires that consume their forest home
animals fear the unnamed beast that consumes their childrenand as what was once a little girl tumbles into the flames
the man.... the Gnawer..... simply stares
it takes lungs to have breath to fuel sound, James, and you know she only had lips..... so how come you can hear her screaming?(imogen)
Body parts and gore tumble into the oven, falling into the flames and fire, which crackles with the addition of new and fresh fuel. They should be happy that in this case the body will burn fast enough and hot enough so as not to leave them with a memory of disturbing cooking meat. Or at least not leave them with that memory for long.Rune steps back, hopefully, and away from the burning opening for the retort, and as she does, Imogen's hand presses against the unnaturally warm thick metal of the door, forcing it shut again, spinning the wheel to complete the process.
And even then... even then... a sudden thump from inside as something (tiny hand with arm and elbow... hips with twisting snaking spine) smacks hard against the door. (taptaptap...silence) The cremation of bones and body can take hours. In a case where the bones are that of a child and the body is hardly more than a few disorganized pieces of flesh and bone, cartiledge and jerking sinew, it will not take nearly that long. Bones go from their natural colour to black as the organic material is carbonized. Then, combustion, the black fades to dark grey. From dark grey to grey. To light grey and finally white.
There must be something in a shade of grey.
Imogen had stepped back as soon as the door was sealed, and takes another abrupt step back as lifedeath makes itself obvious against the amazingly thick door. "...fuck..." half breathed beneath her breath. Curses always sound that much more potent when formed by a british accent, a cornish tongue.
After a moment, she speaks again, quietly, her left hand absently rubbing at her right forearm. "If y'd like, I can stay and watch whatever's left. Clean it up when it's done." It's the last thing she wants, really. But the offer is made, quiet and simple, all the same.
(rune)
taptaptap...silence.The wastebasket clatters to the floor, falls from suddenly nerveless fingers and opening arms as soon as Imogen pushes the door shut and spins the wheel. It rolls to the side, collides with some incomprehensible bit of machinery or other, and stutters to a stop. Oddly enough, the lip is still gripped tight in Rune's left hand, bright red nails digging reflected back as little more than a smear of suggested color by the dull finish.
The unflattering assumptions she made earlier about Imogen's possible reaction (hysterical kin) were never conscious: ingrained and unquestioned, they exist on gut level, the level of instinct. Just as instinctually, Imogen is accepted as the exception that proves the rule. It was the offer, perhaps, or the potent curse that spilled from her mouth when the door was sealed.
"I can stay and help." There's a pause as her gaze flickers to her packmate, question lingering in her eyes - you all right? you don't need to stay - before sliding back to Imogen. "You shouldn't have to do it, and even then, you shouldn't have to do it alone."
(james)
the man
the animal
the Gnawer
the chosen warrior of Gaiaflinches
at the thump
......save me, daddy..... pleasehe didn't notice how much he was shaking
not until the clattercrash of the wastebasket hauls him back to reality
back to the present
it's still several long moments before he finds the dark gaze searching his
dull (dead) unresponsive
save the slow twist of shoulders followed by hips followed by boots
the slower steps
just out into the hallway
his shoulders finding the wall
folding to sink to the floorhe can't stay, not for that
but he will not leave them, either(imogen)
Her hand leaves her forearm, reaching up to push back strands of curled and waved hair from her face, tucking the disagreeable (it's all disagreeable, a cacophany of colours, brightness that is made more so in contrast to all this death; all this grey).Hysterical kin. It does not suit.
Her eyes slide over to Rune as she speaks, before flickering toward James, half pausing to watch him walk away, a line forming between her brows for a moment, before looking back at Rune, nodding, dislodging several firey strands of hair. "Thank you."
Rarely spoken words that are not spoken without meaning. Dark eyes, night sky blue flicker back toward the retort as it slowly devours the remains. "It will take another half an hour, at least. Another forty five minutes or so before the brick cools down enough to take anything out." I've done it before. It's not your job. Though when it comes down to it, it's not her job, either. Not this way, at the wee hours of the morning when no one else is here. A moment's pause, before adding, "It will be a while; unfortunately."
((Ooh... stuff not included in what should have been a wrap up post (obviously wasn't thinking when I did that)...
Could you tell Liz that Rune's wounds are going to take a BIT longer to heal than usual, even with shifting, and be REALLY uncomfortable, like an ... itchy achy kind of thing? And Imogen has three similar but much deeper marks in her forearm, which would have been seen (prolly by rune) when getting the remains out of the retort, because she would have taken off her labcoat and likely changed to a t-shirt))
Posted by james at November 11, 2002 12:00 AM
CommentsPost a comment