Scott is already on the Quad, perched on his usual bench that he overlooks the greens of the campus from. In a few minutes, he'll start the patrols that are routine for him, but for now he's just watching the people go by.
A small mob of leathered punks rolls up the nigh-deserted start-of-vacation quad, loud and harsh, cigarette smoke roiling off them like diesel smoke from an unwell tractor trailer. They spot the bespectacled professor with a roar of laughter and an unlimbering of implements of blunt damage, and spread out to cover his potential escapes.
"You wanna save us the trouble, doc?" one of them, a short, shaven creature with enough metal in parts of his head to set off any metal detector. "Jus' toss yer wallet here. Ain't nobody around to save ya now, 'kay?"
Scott's eyes wander the Quad until they fix on the developing scene. With wry amusement he catchs the punk's words, and slips to his feet, heading across the Quad at a quick pace and towards the confrontation. Dark amusement and a dangerous ... anticpation or eagerness lights in his eyes.
Thomas freezes, and for a moment something close to terror flickers in his eyes. Then, without relaxing, he gives the young man a bemused smile, one which cannot have any bearing on what the young man said. "Of course," he says, mildly surprised. He fishes in his jacket pocket for his wallet.
One of the youngsters tosses a nearly empty beer bottle in Thomas' direction. It misses by about six feet, sailing over and smashing unceremoniously on the pavement. Another jingles a length of chain. The ... person who seems to be the ringleader shifts from foot to foot, fidgeting, watching carefully every motion that Thomas makes. His eyes are a little too bright, and flicker with the paranoia of the chemically altered. None of them yet notice Scott.
Scott pages: Exactly how empty is the quad?
You paged Scott with 'Pretty much completely, considering everyone has taken off for the christmas season. There is the *chance*, however, of other profs being late, possibly peering out of office windows, things like that.'.
Thomas fumbles with the pocket in question, taking a deal too long to fish out his wallet. Perhaps this is because he, unlike the punks, has spied Scott's approach. Or perhaps it isn't. When the wallet finally comes into view, it is a cheap nylon affair, suspiciously thin.
Scott takes the time to duck behind the shadow of a tree to slide into glabro form as he let's luna's protection engulf him and then continues, as quietly as he can towards the youths surrounding the professer. Klaive slips out of sheathe, and is held tight against the back of his arm, likely unseen by the would be assaliants unless they are rather observant. A primal, predatory air starts to surround the Garou, adding a fearsomeness to his already formidable presence. He makes no move to interfere though, unless they seem about to move against Thomas directly.
Scott does, however, slip back into homid form before he slips back into view.
The squat commander shakes his head as if surprised, dazed, or possibly seeing little pink elephants in tutus. His inattention to the matter at hand earns him a cuff to the side of the head by one of his buddies. Awave of general irritation runs through the group at the sight of Thomas' less-than-impressive billfold. A tall, rangy youth snatches it from his hand and peers inside. Another calls, "How much?" A third screams, "Just fuckin' scrag him, man!" This seems to bring them to consensus, and they surge forward, chains, sticks, and steel-toed boots at ready.
Thomas says, "Oh, dear," and ducks to one side with surprising agility. Raising his voice, he says, "/Don't/ kill them." Then he concentrates on getting away, or at least ut from the middle.
Scott doesn't hesitate then, with a snarl the turns into a roar of challenge, echoing across the quad he leaps towards the toughs about to assualt Thomas, hoping to distract and divert they attention to him. With the speed of rage he moves in among them, darting low and slashing high, looking to wound and drive back with cuts of the silver blade. Rather than seriously injure or kill.
The roar of bloodlust becomes cries and curses of confusion as *something* comes at them from behind. Thomas steps, steps, and dives past a lanky, oily looking teen who yelps and clutches his head at the sound of Scott's challenge. Three fall back from Scott's Klaive, wounded, bleeding and shouting, and a particularly stout tough whips around with his baseball bat, catching the Fang squarely upside his head. Scott moves with the power of the blow, but rolls with it sufficiently to merely have a ringing ear, instead of the skull fracture the hood clearly intended.
Thomas pages: How many are there? As near as Thomas can tell?
You paged Thomas with 'There are about eight.'.
Thomas scurries outside the hurricane of violence and stops, turning around to get a better look at it. In fact, he doesn't actually do anything /but/ look.
A low, feral growl churns out of Scott's throat as he snaps his head up and gets his bearing, crouched low in a combat stance. He says lowly, and a dangerously quiet voice,"Alright, now I'm pissed." With that he feints high against the larger man, again blurring with the speed of rage before he reverses the swipe and passes by the tough low and to the right, flicking the blade out with precision and speed in an attempt to hamstring him while relying on his experience and Merlin's boon to help him avoid a return blow, and barring that, Luna's protection to keep him in one piece.
Scott's slash strikes home, eliciting a shriek of agony from the big adolescent, who drops his bat and crumples to the ground, clutching his leg. A lanky chap with the chain heard earlier collapses in a violent sneezing fit that draws blood from his nose, having been arrested in mid-thrust of his switchblade toward Scott's back. Two others leap on Scott, one armed with a knife and the other punching with a roll of pennies. The knife slashes fabric, but the fist strikes Fang jaw, leaving a bruise. The rangy boy with the surrendered wallet slips from the maelstrom of motion and decides that he's going to take out his frustration on the distracted professor, catching him from behind with a pilfered police billy club. The strike cracks across Thomas' shoulder and upper back with a resounding thump.
You paged Scott with '1 nonagg'.
You paged Thomas with '3 nonagg. Aiee!'.
Thomas staggers, cursing. He whirls around, fear and anger mixing in his eyes. "Get the /hell/ away from me--" He throws his first, incredibly inexpert punch, aiming for somewhere around his assailant's midsection.
Scott ignores the pain from the blow to his jaw, and gritting his teeth and slash out again, trying to push his way free of the two foes in front of him to close the distance between himself and the man facing Thomas. He doesn't totally open himself up to the two next to him, looking to avoid any attacks directed at him, but dodging isn't his primary objective here.
Scott sees Thomas' opponent fold ungracefully to all fours, gasping and sobbing and shuddering. The two men on top of the Fang make completely ineffective attacks, and both are caught unawares and off-balance by Scott's shove, flinging one to the ground, while the other staggers back, into another of his compatriots. The unhappily hamstrung punk weeps and yells incoherently for his friends to help him, friends who seem more interested in maintaining the integrity of their own hides than getting him away from the battlefield. The punks stand back, undecided, when the ringleader shouts from a position well away from the fight. He waves a gun. "Fuck you, man! Fuck you, fuckin' superfuckin' man!!! Gonna fuckin' blow your head off!"
Limbo pages all: And the limited vocabulary award goes to...
From afar, to Scott and Limbo, Thomas laughs.
A little wild-eyed, Thomas takes several steps back from his, er, precious opponent, and switches his attention to the gun-toting ringleader. He fishes in the breastpocket of his jacket again, this time, incongruously producing a wooden pencil, which he snaps in two shaking hands. Nothing happens.
Scott gets a wicked smile as he pulls out a Desert Eagle from under his jacket. Smirking as he levels the weapon, he says,"Mine's bigger." He doesn't waste as much time with chatter though, firing of a round as soon as his weapon is leveled.
Limbo pages all: YOW!
Thomas pages: The breaking action is his focus for forces. He's only got a two, but what he's trying to do is maintin a status quo, which shouldn't be too difficult. Just nothing-will-burn-right-here-right-now.
Thomas pages: NOT that it seems to matter...
From afar, to Thomas and Limbo, Scott blinks innocently. ;)
You paged Scott with 'Are we aiming to messily slaughter, or merely maim? ;)'.
From afar, to Scott and Limbo, Thomas disapproves on principle. I was taking care of it just /fine/. :)
Scott pages: Not to kill, no, although Scott's not going to feel particularly guilty if he does.
From afar, Scott is standing to take the return fire, as well, a bit foolishly and insanely, but oh well. :)
@doing My God, I've created a monster.
Set.
Thomas flinches back another few steps, stumbling and almost falling in reaction to Scott's gunshot.
Dana comes on to campus from the direction of the dormitories.
The gun wielding punk's eyes widen and he hurriedly squeezes the trigger of his quivering firearm. Nothing happens, except that a millisecond or so after the deafening roar of Scott's massive pistol, he screams, spinning a full 360 degrees as his shoulder is pulverized by the slug, and dropping to the ground, still screeching, rather like a farm animal being slaughtered.
That seems to decide the remainder of the gang, who decamp at high speed, scattering into the plethora of shadows that drape the nearby buildings. With the exception of the blubbering hamstring-problem, who continues to bleed and whimper on the ground where Scott -- and his friends -- left him.
Scott blinks as no return fire is offered, and then lowers the gun, reholstering the pistol beneath his jacket quickly. He turns towards Thomas, his eyes assessing,"You okay?" The Klaive gets re-sheathed as well.
Thomas is shaking visibly, but keeps the anger on the surface where it's useful, and the fear underneath, where it doesn't get (too much) in the way. "For god's sake," he says, looking at the injured kid. "What do we do now?"
From afar, Thomas gets rid of that annoying nonagg, now that he's no longer busy. And after that, will at least make sure the young-idiot-with-gun who was trying to kill them (as opposed to the young-idiot-with-gun trying to save him) doesn't bleed to death before they come to a decision.
Dana was walking across campus, perhaps naively by herself on this last night before the winter break, and ducks into a hiding place just as some of the gang members, or whoever they are, rush past. Curiousity about what is going on wars with a very healthy dose of self-preservation.
From afar, Dana smacks her forehead. Nick would disown me if I'd forgotten. I'm going to fire up a Corr:1 effect and try to see what's going on ahead of me.
You paged Dana with 'You see Thomas and Scott standing around eyeing two punks on the ground, one is weeping and holding his bleeding hamstring, the other is shrieking like a stuck pig and bleeding copiously from the shoulder.'.
Scott inclines his head alittle, working his bruised and battered jaw a little. "You call in to campus security saying you were assualted, and someone you didn't get a good look at helped distract them. You heard gunfire and then the gangers scattered into the night as did your supposed would be savior. I'm sure you can convince them of that. I wasn't here. In fact, if you can ... make him forget seeing me, or my face and description, I would be /greatly/ appreciative." In contrast to Thomas, Scott seems relatively calm on the outside, the anger lurking deeply surpressed but churning towards the surface.
Thomas jerks back, disgust inexplicable but unmistakable in his posture and expression, "No, I can't," he says, almost spitting the words. He turns away, showing no sign of the one injury he received, and scans for a campus phone. "Get out, then. I'll make the call." As he finds a phone with its blue security light identifying it and heads toward it, he can be heard to mutter, "Poor bastard."
Dana remains partially hidden in the spot she found even as the sound of running footsteps fade. She looks vaguely in the direction the two are at, but makes no effort to join them, for now, something supported by the fact that she crouches down to make herself even less visible.
From afar, Thomas slows the bleeding, and makes some minor repairs, but not enough to be incongruous to anyone medical who comes looking.
Out of a nearby tree, a small blur springs onto Scott's back, running a knife into his shoulder and dragging it down his back under its full weight, a nearly inhuman shriek of rage sounding across the campus.
You paged Scott with '4 nonagg!'.
Thomas whirls around, what little self-possession he had left shattered by the shriek.
From afar, Thomas takes you at your word ('inhuman') and does a life scan.
You paged Thomas with 'Perfectly human, boy of about 9.'.
Scott eyes Thomas for a long moment, that anger threatening to break over the surface. With a small twitch of his lip, he starts to turn as he's assualted from behind, falling with a roar of pain and going down in a heap beneath his attacker.
Dana pages: This is probably enough to shock Dana into something approaching violence. Actually, probably Suggestion at Mind:2, towards the attacker's mind, trying to convince him to run away.
Dana voices a shocked, half-strangled, "No," before she freezes in place half out of her crouch, hands clenching so tightly to make her knuckles go white.
Thomas takes one long look at the garou's attacker and yells - almost screams - "Don't hurt him--!" coming back toward Scott almost at a run. It's a little ambiguous which of the two he's speaking to until he adds urgently, "It's a kid."
The small boy, bouncing away from his target with bloody switchblade in hand, looks like he's about to pounce forward again, but hesitates, looking acutely confused and dazed.
From afar, Thomas tries to black the kid out - constrict the airway until he conks out.
From afar, Thomas has realized that the best way to stop a garou from attacking someone is to have the person be helpless. :)
From afar, Dana does it again, burning willpower (I'm fuzzy on the specifics of the Mage rules, but I give you license to free-lance =).
Long distance to Dana: Limbo okies. :)
Rage seethes and surrounds the galliard as he tries to throw his attacker off. As the boy darts back, he scrambles to a kneeling position, though it's obvious he's rather wobbly on his feet and stares daggers at the young boy. A cough wracks Scott's body, sending a small stream of blood out onto the ground before him, which he attempts to wipe away from his mouth with the back of his hand. He stays his place, though it seems an act of iron will, the primal predator seeking to escape out between the bonds of control in every movement and gesture.
The gang's scrappy little mascot turns to flee from the enraged Garou, makes it a few steps, gasps for breath, coughs, and collapses to the ground, utterly unconscious.
From afar, Scott checks for Wyrm.
You paged Scott with 'Nope. :)'.
Thomas ends up between Scott and the child, glaring, fear transmuting to fury like an alchemist's party trick. He fights to keep a grip on it and says harshly, "Can you fix that or do you want me to?"
You paged Thomas with 'Backstab for the thief, triple damage! :)'.
From afar, Thomas giggles, and is impressed with Thomas, whose first urge, very unreasonably, was to yell at Scott to just get the hell out of there. :)
Dana sinks back into her crouch and sidles so that she is closer still to the partial cover she's found, a hand going against it and pressing hard as if she can pull it's rigid strength into herself.
Thomas suddenly stops in a vivid-double-take, before Scott can even reply, and the blood drains out of his face. "Who's there?" he says, turning around, searching the shadows franticly. "Who did the m-Who's there?"
Scott laughs darkly, managing weakly,"Not in front of him, I can't." He manages his feet, again shakily though managing so with a dignity generations of noble blood has passed down to him, even as bloodied as he is. "I'll ... be alright." He inclines his head a little, and while the rage still seems to be trying to gain a footing on him and push him over the brink into action, each moment seems to bring the Galliard more under control. "Just see to the boy, and the rest of this..." He trails off at the Mage's words, spinning around quickly, so much so he almost threatens to lose his balance.
Thomas pages: First a mugging, then mind magick, it's a bad night for Thomas, all in all. :) :)
Dana is silent and unmoving in her spot still a ways away from the two men and their attackers.
Scott growls lowly, pulling the Klaive out again and peering into the darkness where Thomas was looking warily. For a moment at least, before he steadies himself on a nearby tree. "What is it, Thomas?"
In the silence of the campus, with the wind rattling the bare tree branches, sirens can be heard in the distance, growing closer.
Thomas's breath is coming quick and shallow, now, and he looks more frightened than he ever did during the attack. He keeps turning, staring, turning, stumbling, staring. "A--mage. Mind. Somewhere near. I felt it, but I can't /find/ him--
Scott blinks, and then chuckles softly a touch of that lack of balance showing in the laugh. He re-sheaths the Klaive, and mutters,"Someone you should probably meet at some point, Thomas. However, I ... can't stick around to introduce you. Gaia's grace, and ... be careful." With that, the Silver Fang turns to go, moving slowly if purposefully and seeking the safety of the shadows.
As the sirens drift closer on the chill evening air, the boy begins to slowly and carefully drag himself toward a bush...
"No, wait--" Thomas begins, and then, "Ah, /hell/." He hugs himself as if only now aware of the cold. With many a furtive glance behind him, he moves toward the phone he spotted earlier.
The teen with the shoulder wound has subsided into drifting unconsciousness and shock, the other still grips his slashed thigh and emits a whimper periodically.
Catching sight of the boy, Thomas stops and stares at him for a moment, then turns back toward the phone.
Thomas pages: Thomas fixes whatever wooziness remains in the kid, so that he can run away more effectively.
The child makes a staggering dash for cover and thence between some buildings and away, his sneakered feet padding along the pavement and his breath fast and ragged in the cold air.
look glenn
Some six feet tall and lean of build, Glenn moves with a ready confidence. He's not unattractive, but rather the type of fellow that tends to fade into crowds if you're not watching him carefully; his dark brown hair is worn loose and shoulder-length, and his brown eyes are even less remarkable. A dark goatee graces his chin, accentuating saturnine features of vaguely Scandinavian origin. More than all this, though, is his manner -- he's cool and collected, seemingly unperterbable, and the way he carries himself just hints at the predatory.
His clothing is street-stylish, if monochrome: casual black pants belted with black leather, black leather shoes, a casual black blazer worn over a black t-shirt, and a black trench coat.
Glenn pages: Hi. I'm a cop. Have I arrived yet, or shall I still be in the process of arriving?
Long distance to Glenn: Limbo grins. You can arrive now. You've been approaching for a few moments.
Thomas clings to the telephone as he calls security, oblivious to the sirens already approaching. "Yes--thank you--I was just--just attacked. Bunch of kids, bottles, baseball ba--no, they're gone. Except two of them are hurt. The others--in the quad. No, I--there was someone else, I didn't see him. Had a gun, I think." As he continues answering their questions and assuring them that he will stay put and that he knows help is on the way, Thomas manages to regain some of his self-possession, perhaps through the exercise of feigning lack of it.
While Thomas is on the phone with security, a police car arrives on the scene.
Dana slips out of her hiding place and to the closest pathways to the dormitories, blending into the scenery unnoticably.
Arriving with the first of the police cruisers, Glenn leaps out of an unmarked police car and hurries out onto the quad. He's drawn his weapon from its shoulder holster before he's halfway there.
Scott, once he is well within the safety of the shadows, slips into a healing form just long enough for those wounds to heal before heading towards the dorms, keeping a too route where no one is likely to catch sight of him.
Scott traverses the lawn of the mall, destination apparently being the dormitories off in the distance.
Scott has left.
Thomas whirls around as the sirens close in behind him, shaking not yet entirely under control. He has hung up the security phone, and now stands waiting for the police as for a death sentence, with a somewhat pathetic attempt at dignity.
Two teens are on the ground of the quad, quite near each other, one in shock from a massive bullet wound to the shoulder, the other rocking and moaning, holding a slashed thigh.
Dana traverses the lawn of the mall, destination apparently being the dormitories off in the distance.
"Jesus H. Christ in a taxi cab," Glenn curses; he crouches down to check the carotid pulse of the teen who's not wailing and gnashing his teeth, and then looks up and around -- and spots Thomas. "Hey." The word is meant to command attention rather than as a greeting.
Thomas is paying attention. Thomas is paying a great /deal/ of attention.
Pulse is thin and racy, but definitely there. The boy's probably in shock, although he hasn't, in fact, lost a great deal of blood.
Thomas takes a reluctant step toward the police. "I just called security," he volunteers. "They--I was just walking--"
Glenn rises, slowly, from the teen's side. "You were just walking, and these chumps came along and started some shit with someone, and that someone opened up with a hand cannon." He adroitly finished Thomas' sentence for him. "Who's the chump with the hand cannon? You?" He doesn't put his own gun away, but neither does he train it on Thomas.
Thomas shakes his head quickly. "No, I--didn't see him very closely. I--" Something has thrown this middle-aged man very badly off-balance. Possibly it was the experience of nearly being mugged.
Thomas pages: Say, did they take his wallet with them?
You paged Thomas with 'Of course they did!'.
Thomas pages: Just checking. It had four dollars and a movie ticket stub in it. Thomas was in the habit of being mugged so often that he never carried anything he wanted to keep in his wallet. :)
"Yeah, and I'm a Chinese jet pilot," Glenn responds, beginning to approach Thomas; as he does so, he produces a pair of cuffs from a pocket of his coat. "You've got a choice, pal. You can either tell me what you saw, or you can spend the night downtown with Bubba trying to turn you into his new girlfriend."
You paged Thomas and Glenn with 'Bad cop, NO donut!! ;)'.
p thFrom afar, to Thomas and Limbo, Glenn's been watching too much NYPD Blue.
Thomas flinches violently and seems on the verge of collapse. He takes a deep, shaking breath, and then another, and says quietly, "I d-did. There were--eight, maybe nine th-kids. They wanted my wallet. I gave it to them, but there wasn't enough in it. They--oh, christ." He wipes his face and takes anothe breath, trying not to let his fear of the police show too badly. "They said, 'Just scrag him.'" Another breath. "After that," with an acerbic trace in his voice that might, at another time and place, have been humor, "things got a little complicated. Someone was there with a knife, I saw that much. A man, I think. White. Dark hair, or maybe it was a cap. Someone hit me. I don't know what happened next. Then I heard gun fire, and the next thing I knew I was alone with these t-two."
There is a 9mm lying in the grass near the punk with the shoulder wound.
Glenn smiles slightly, and puts away his handcuffs as Thomas attempts to cooperate a little more. He digs through a pocket and produces a notepad, which he opens and begins to scribble into. "I'll need a name and phone number where I can reach you, sir." His eyes go to the gun lying in the grass, and he heads over towards it and kicks it away from the bleeding teen as other police and emergency personnel begin to arrive and deal with the situation.
Thomas hunches his shoulders; he's been anticipating this moment and knows how bad it will sound. "I'm--Mendip. Thomas Mendip. I live at the Regan Hope Project." He gives the number, and waits for the inevitable question of his presence on campus.
"That's over on the other side of town," Glenn observes, as he scribbles the name and number into his notebook. "What're you doing all the way over here?" Behind him, an ambulance has pulled up, and EMTs are hastily trying to stabilize the two victims and get them underway to a hospital.
Ambulances arrive to bear the two injured teens off to the hospital, police fan out, searching for signs of the other gang members or the mysterious vigilante. A news crew arrives. Someone finds Thomas' wallet, empty but for a movie ticket stub. One of the gang members is rounded up not very far away, attempting to hide in a garbage dumpster. He tells a tale of a huge man with a big knife and an even bigger gun.
Thomas passes a hand over his face, unsettling his glasses and then pushing them back into place. He looks inutterably weary. "I work here," he says tiredly. "I'm also Professor Ray Ashburne." He doesn't even try to explain.
You paged Thomas with 'Why, no, they mysteriously don't have any memory at all of events. Paramedics suggest that the trauma might have shocked their memories.'.
From afar, Thomas grins. Aw. The evil m--I mean, the mind mage has some use, after all. :)
Long distance to Thomas: Limbo grins.
Glenn, to his credit, doesn't let this new tidbit of information throw him. "Well, Mr. Ashburne, or Mr. Mendip, or whatever your name is. For now you're free to go. Please stay in town for the next few days; I'll want you to look over some mug shots." He finishes with his notes, snaps his notebook shut, and tucks it away into a coat pocket.
Thomas looks up at the officer, startled speechless.
Thomas says, incredulously, "I can--go?"
Glenn waves a hand at Thomas, already moving on to other things. "Yes, Mr. Mendip. Get out of here. Go home. Watch TV. Clean out your underwear. All that stuff."
Thomas takes a deep shuddering breath, and gets out of there, no further questions asked.
Limbo pages all: I guess that's about it, except for the media board posting. :) Thanks, Officer. :)
-----------
Then, back at the Regan Hope Project...
Thomas fumbles his way through the door and stops to close it behind him, even thought it would have swung closed without assistance if he'd let it. He looks gray and old, and desperately tired.
Piddles looks up from reading a battered and yellowed copy of _The Hobbit_. He takes in the view of Thomas and immediately shifts from his cheerful greeting to concern. "Thomas? Izza yu okee?"
Thomas nods. "Yes, thank you Pid. I'm all right." He makes his way over to where the lupus is reading and adds quietly, "I just had a little...incident...on campus, that's all."
Piddles thinks quietly for a moment, then peers over the top of his spectacles. "In-see-dint?"
Thomas stares blankly at Pid for a long moment, and then the humor wins through, and he starts to smile. "Incident. Occurrence. Something happened. It's a euphemism, which--" he adds hastily, "is a polite or toned-down way of saying something rude or upsetting."
Piddles springs up, dropping the book. He stoops to pick it up, and drops his glasses. Finally, he manages to stand upright with glasses askew and book in hand. "Yu sittin' down now, Thomas, an' Pid, hee make yu niysss cuppa tee, yah?"
Thomas blinks. Then he sits down. "Thank you," he says, startled. Then, "Do I look that bad?"
Piddles nods. "Yup. Arfull." He skips off to the kitchen to boil water and soak teabags and whatnot.
Thomas laughs weakly and leans back, closing his eyes. Then he opens them again, lurches to his feet, and heads back to his cubicle to check on Emrys, who is sweetly asleep. Then he comes back and collapses into the chair again.
Piddles returns a few moments later with a steaming cup of tea. "Pidza dinna no howya doya tee, so heer." He deposits half a dozen restaurant containers of half-and-half and an equal number of sugar packets on a nearby table. He then flops onto the floor. "So wut happen?"
Thomas sniffs inquiringly at the tea, takes a sip without additives, and grimaces as he scalds himself. "Typical," he mutters. "What? Oh..." He sighs. "Some stupid hoods decided I was an easy mark. Then a, ah, relative of yours...do you know a kid named Scott? Blond hair, all dignity and drama?"
Shadow Eyes has arrived.
Piddles curls his lip at the name and description. "Izza stuff shirt asshole. Yah. Pid nozim." There aren't many people at all that Pid uses profanity about.
Shadow Eyes pads in through a slightly parted door, and raises a nose to look sniff around.
Piddles peers over at the doorway and grins. He pats the floor in beckoning to his packmate.
Thomas blinks, and takes a second, more cautious sip of his tea. As always with him, control of his voice comes back well before the rest of him, and though his words tend toward the sarcastic and possessed, the hand holding his cup is still trembling very slightly. His manner indicates that only a boor would take note of such an inconsistency. "Well. He came dashingly to my rescue, which unfortunately included the use of a hand canno--" He stops as he sees the dog.
Shadow Eyes pads over quickly, the mutty head sliding under Piddles hand and revelling in the petting. Ahhh. Packie Scritcheees.
Thomas smiles very slowly. Then he looks pained, and reaches for the sugar Pid brought to distract himself from the pack affection for a moment. A surreptious life scan later, he says, "Elan?"
Piddles skritches fiercely, in all the right spots. He looks back up at Thomas. "Well, goood. A'least he gudfer sumpin', yah? Steada posin' anna yellin' alla time."
Shadow Eyes flicks an ear at Thomas and, after a careful look and sniff, gives a very un-canine like nod.
Thomas looks briefly wistful, and settles back into his chair, sipping tentatively at his newly sweetened tea. He says, "Mmmp. Well, hello. Yes, I suppose so, Pid, except that he left me to explain the mess he made to the police. And--" his memory touches on something he doesn't want to talk about, then, and he closes his mouth over the word.
Piddles frowns. "Wut?"
Shadow Eyes whines softly, and sniffs Thomas.
Thomas shakes his head, staring into his tea.
Piddles scowls thoughtfully, absently scritching Elan. "Izza nofair he leevin' yu ta pick up da peeces, but I s'pose he lef' peeces, anna hadda runnaway or git cot, yah? It steel suck."
Thomas looks up again, and sighs. "Yes. I don't suppose he has a license for that gun, for one thing, and I don't suppose he could afford to get embrangled in court procedings, either. Above the law and all that. I understand why he left. I wish to god he hadn't shot the kid in the first place, though." He hesitates, and then, looking at his cup again, says very quietly, "There was another mage around there. Someone doing...I don't know. Some kind of mind warping. I--I felt it, somehow. But I couldn't /find/ him, whoever it was. I couldn't, and I should have been able to." He could say more, but he stops himself there, shoulders rigid with tension."
Piddles drops his eyes to Elan's and raises his bushy eyebrows, concerned, then looks back to Thomas. "Izza bee okee, Thomas, yah. Pid no lettim getcha."
Thomas shivers.
Shadow Eyes flicks his ears. Telepath? he asks Piddles.
"Mebbe," Pid says to Elan. "Dat kinda ting we no kin figger oot alla time."
"What kind of thing?" Thomas asks, struggling out of his own unpleasant thoughts.
Piddles shrugs. "De amazeeng Vooolton, mieeend-reeeding treeck."
Thomas stares at Pid for a moment without comprehension, then starts to laugh helplessly. He sets the tea down, still chuckling.
Thomas says "I wish it were." He does not, hoever, seem inclined to explain. "I--Pid, I'm sorry. It's late, and I've had one hell of a day"
Piddles shushes Thomas a little, peering toward Emrys' bed area with the look of a mother hen.
Shadow Eyes nuzzles Pid, I should change?
Piddles grins down at Elan and glances around at the Project. "Not heer, I don' theenk."
Shadow Eyes nips Piddles, wagging his tail. Not /here/ here. Silly.
Thomas watches Elan fixedly.
Shadow Eyes pads over and nuzzles Thomas.
Thomas stares down at Shadow Eyes but doesn't respond to the nuzzle.
Back to home.