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jeremiah_garou) wrote2017-01-03 08:00 pm
jeremiah_garou) wrote2017-01-03 08:00 pm
You need light.
January 3, 2017
The moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (39% full).
Tuesday evening; almost all of the offices have cleaned out, and the construction crew working on the foundation of what a large banner proclaims will be Hilliard Memorial Hospital (coming Spring 2018!) have gone home for the day. Traffic has mostly cleared, as much as it ever does in this part of St. Claire, and the only real signs of activity are from a few late strollers, and the lighted but blinds drawn windows of either a few workers staying late in their offices, or janitorial staff. Blocks away, the traffic is thicker, the sounds of cars and car horns louder, and occasionally the routine sound of an emergency siren wailing into the oncoming night, but here, at the entrance to the old hospital parking garage, it's as if the rest of the world has passed the place by. It's a squat building sat across the road from the large hospital lot, but there are no lights to advertise it, and only the flicker of a street lamp that's close, but not close enough, sheds any illumination on it at all. The entrance is blocked by a single rusted chain. The security booth looks long abandoned, with a cracked window and the door not fully latched. Graffiti, the work of both gang signs and street artists, paints the walls, the booth, and even a bit of the ramp that leads down into the pitch darkness of the garage itself.
Monica comes prepared, at least, with many-an-illuminating-item strapped and secured into a backpack so none of the bits and pieces rattle around or make too much noise. The ends of two broken chairlegs peek out from the zipped portion— backups, in case any of the battery-powered light sources crap out— and anyone lacking a proper flashlight is handed one of the LED variety. Not super cheap, but not exactly high-end, either.
"Anyone who's comfortable with a flare," Monica says, inspecting the chain on the door, "you should say it now. I'd rather divvy up supplies now, rather than later. Worth mentioning, though: I've only got two of them on me, though, so only use them if it's an emergency." Like, say, if this place decides to drain battery life.
She looks around the surrounding area a couple times, doing her best to discern if there's anyone who's paying even the slightest bit of attention to them. "Just remember what I said earlier," she continues, not so much speaking as an authority but more as the de-facto 'troup leader' of this operation, "everyone together. No running off on your own. No heroics. We're here to see what the place looks like, and report back."
"I got a backpack full of military grade flashlights as well, headsets and walkie talkies with a five gigahertz frequency so we won't cross band over other spectrums," Briari says as she unzips her bag, starting to hand them out to everyone who wants one. "These are super comfortable also. We should be able to hear each other crystal clear through the lines." After setting herself up, she slams her bracelets together by the wrists which start to unpack themselves into the large gold bracers that slip over her arms. There is a click-clack sound as they settle into place.
Jeremiah hangs near and slightly behind Felix, almost a looming ahroun shadow. He's said no more than his introduction— and with good reason, the Jackal voice squeaky and far from silent— since they first caught up with the rest of the Garou. There's a nod after Monica speaks, and then the ahroun moves over and takes two of the flashlights, one of which is handed towards Felix with a tilt of his head. After that, Jeremiah puts his into one of the many pockets of his outermost coat, though it seems that he's keeping a hand on it nonetheless.
Karin does a cursory scan for people around them, but mostly she leaves that to those with more skill in that area. Her own attention focuses on the path ahead. "I'll just use a flashlight, though I could use a second one as a backup. And I do have matches as well, should we need them."
"I'm fine with 'em," Felix says to Monica, and accepts what gear he's given. The flashlight Jeremiah passes on gets flicked on — and then off again when it briefly makes the ground in front of him do an imitation of daylight. "Not bad," he says, and settles one of the headsets in place. "I got a lighter," he adds to Karin's match mention, with a shrug, "…an' some sparklers. If we end up needin' to draw some light doodles or somethin'."
"Thanks," Monica says gently to Briari, accepting the headset and wordlessly urging the others to take them, as well. "Matches are good," she says. She digs around in her pocket with her free hand, the other still holding aloft a gaudy, battery powered camping lantern. "I've got my lighter, too," she says, seconding Felix, "if anyone needs it."
She looks down into the parking garage as she gets the earpiece set up, taps it a couple times, takes a breath, and says: "Now, okay… from what I hear, people tend to— wig out a little when they get close to this stuff," carefully stepping over the chain and motioning for the others to follow suit. "So— let's not take any chances. If you hear anyone say anything—and I mean anything—that sounds really— wrong, or out of character, especially over the earpiece, doublecheck to make sure you heard right, even if you think you're being a nuisance." She waits for a time to flick on the lantern for now, preferring instead to get further away from the sight of the general public before powering it on.
"Same goes for if you see anything you think shouldn't be there," she says. "My hope is that keeping a clear line of communication between all of us'll help keep us grounded."
"Just to let you know, the Nothing …this ooze stuff? It absorbs fire, so throwing cocktails or flame throwers or anything at it doesn't really help." Briari says as she gives a nod of her head. "Even my gauntlets here when I was punching a oozed up spiral. It was like it was trying to extinguish my blasts." She clinks them together a few times.
A few cars pass as they talk, but glimpses of the drivers suggest none so much as glance their way. As the parking garage seems to have been forgotten by its surroundings, so too do the small gathered Garou, at least to the mundane world. The ramp leads downward to the first level…lights reveal moss along the walls, tire marks on the ramp itself, garbage rotting here and there where the two meet. It's chilly, but as they descend, it seems to get a little colder. Before them, their lights illuminate a few cars, parked as though their owners might be returning any minute, as well as piles of old leaves, a seemingly locked door on either side of the level, and a painted '1' on the wall, near what are clearly elevator doors, albeit ones that surely haven't been used in a long, long time.
Karin notes, "Nothing significant as far as Wyld energies, at least thusfar. If that changes, I'll let you know. With some of what I've been told of the place, I'd wondered if there might be." She, too, takes a headset and does a radio check to help get used to the device and make sure she can use it properly.
Jeremiah furrows his brows, and somewhat awkwardly takes one of the radios, getting it set up as they go, before retrieving the flashlight from his pocket. It's sized enough to make a decent baton, which seems to be Jer's current use for it. He looks around, and furrows his brows a little bit more, the frown turning fully to a scowl and even the attempt at a whisper is tinged with the squeaking Jackal-voice. "Too damn quiet," he notes.
"Impression I got is we don't wanna touch this shit, neither," Felix says, "if we can help it." He keeps the flashlight out, apparently to use as a flashlight, though he doesn't turn it back on until they get to where the dim starts to shade into dark. He looks around as he goes, thoughtfully. "Didn't get a lotta chance to really take this place in, last time I was here…"
Monica nods at the information she's given, both from Karin and Briari, a quick glance back towards the streets made before she flicks on the lantern, and bam. Let there be light!
Or, at least, non-conical light. It does a good job of brightening the entire area. Not exactly stealthy, but that's not what they're here for.
She takes a moment to listen closely to any noises coming from up ahead once the talk comes to a close for the time being, though she does acknowledge Felix's observation with another nod. Doesn't tell the others to shush, for the moment, preferring instead to scrutinize her surroundings at those times that listening is as much of an option.
The extra light reveals no lurking dangers, merely more of the dilapidated state the garage appears to be in. At the far end of the level, another ramp leads further down, although the lamp light doesn't quite illuminate to what quite yet. Everything seems very quiet. Not even the persistent dripping reported by Val and Salem can be heard, and the sounds of the city seem terribly muted almost as soon as they step properly in.
As she follows after them, Briari taps the side of her head and her eyes give a faint glow as she turns on her cyber senses. She communicates this through the radio as she scans through night vision eyes once they head into the dark.
Karin considers a moment. "As empty as this place looks to be, one of us might want to shift to lupus. Wolf senses might be able to pick up something that we'd otherwise miss."
There is a moment of thought, and then Jeremiah hands the flashlight back off to Felix, and pulls his jacket into place. The ahroun shifts, upward, through crinos with a long pause there before he reaches hispo, and stops rather than going all the way to lupus. His ears flatten back for a moment, and he pads forward. Even lupine and mother's tongue communication is strained with the Jackal, but he does manage, ~I'll try.~
Sheogorath pages: Must, and old leaves. Long dried grease and oil stains. Heavy whiffs of stale gas, none of them recent. He can smell blood and bleach here, but also burned flesh. Most noticeably, he can smell Salem, and Val. He can smell Felix, a scent that seems little older than the one Felix is leaving right now. There are others, but he doesn't recognize them. Other Garou maybe?
Sheogorath pages: And yes, all of that with perception 1. >:)
"Ain't a bad idea," Felix agrees, and glances around right about as his tribemate hands him the flashlight. He sticks it into his pocket, handle outward. For now, he continues along reasonably quietly, scanning their surroundings with the beam of his flashlight.
Monica glances briefly towards Briari in acknowledgement, but keep her eyes largely on the path ahead. To Karin's suggestion, she considers for a time, then— Well, doesn't really get a chance to say anything to the contrary. Jeremiah's already taken the initiative. "I'd be more comfortable with it if one of us was wolf-born," she says, still pushing forward with little more than a glance behind her, "mostly because there's no telling what kind of sensory input we'll be up against, but yeah. Probably not a bad idea."
Lives-On seems as comfortable in his hispo form as he is in homid, at least. His lips pull back from his teeth, and then he continues moving forward with deliberation but not hurrying or going in front of Monica, relaying what he has found. Smells his tribemate. Smells Scar-rhya. Smells the bird woman. Other garou? Blood, chemicals, old car smells. Leaves, and old car smells. His ears press back again as he finishes this.
The second ramp goes down and loops back, putting the next floor directly below the last. There are fewer cars down here, mostly empty spaces. There is only one locked door this time, with a faded sign that indicates it's the stairwell, then the elevator doors, and a large painted '2'. Once again, the opposite end of the floor has a ramp leading downward, but on the ceiling just above it, a small, black, wet looking tendril can be spotted, stretching up from below. It's even colder down here.
Sheogorath pages: As they go down, cold prickles at his nose. Cold doesn't have a smell, but if it did, it might smell like… something like this. The scents seem faded. No Garou, apart from the ones he's with. Far fewer car smells. Damp.
Monica taps her headset and says a soft, "Briari— got any discreet ways of taking a picture of that?" her head nodding towards the tendril.
Glancing over to the tendril, Briari gives a sharp nod of her head. "On it." She says as she starts to scan through the dark towards the tendril, letting her sharper eyes focus as they shift through the spectrum.
Karin seems to be expecting it, this time, when she reports, "Still nothing noteworthy as far as Wyld energies, even with…that present." A look between Briari and Lives-On. "Can either of you determine anything about it?"
What, not even going to ASK Felix? …fair enough, he can't anyway. Maybe if it starts dreaming. As it is, he just eyes it a few moments, following it back down from the roof with his gaze.
"Gets thicker along the ceiling, ramp is clear." Briari calls through the radio as she continues to sweep her gaze through the dark, glancing left and right as she goes.
Lives-On's lips pull back from his teeth as they get down the ramp, as if baring his teeth is going to do something to the tendril. Then, he pauses at the bottom, dragging his claws against the floor. First one front paw, then the other, then the back ones, all of them get the same attention and then he quickens the pace to catch up. Cold, he notes. It's cold. Says the one with the fur.
Monica goes tense for all of a couple heartbeats, attention that was straying past the tendril and further into the parking lot snapping back towards the tendril. "Oh-kay," she says under her breath. "Unless there's some old guy hijacking the signal—" Which seems doubtful. A little more firmly, she says, "Just heard someone say 'do you understand what it is?'" She looks over a the rest of them. "Only thing I understand about it is it's not supposed to be here," she says, to no one in particular, apparently opting to indulge this insanity out loud. "I could speculate more on that, but for now, just assume the answer's 'no.'" She continues to move, noting what Lives-On reports, and starting to feel the chill a bit more prominently, herself. "How about you educate me a little?" she says, then. "Tell me a story while we check the place out? Or maybe you'd rather just waste time fucking with me, in which case— knock yourself out."
Briari's words prove true as they move forward; that tendril winds down overhead, but the ramp itself is clear, there's no risk of coming into contact with it unless they try. There's a certain amount of fuzz in all of their headsets now, crackling, even a tiny bit of feedback, as if one were adjusting an old ham radio, rather than a state of the art communications device. "—a story," says a voice from their headsets. Raspy. Old. Male. "If you're willing to listen. I can, of course, leave you to your own discovery, if you prefer."
Karin says, "I, for one, would love to hear a story." The answer seems to be quite genuine, even if she has no idea who the speaker might be.
You paged Sheogorath with 'Any clue/picking up on presence other than themselves other than the voice?'.
Sheogorath pages: No new scent, no sounds of someone breathing who shouldn't be.
"Big fan of stories," Felix agrees, with a glance toward Monica. He's still fairly close to Jeremiah, so the Hispo may be able to pick up what's coming over his headset. He doesn't have it loud enough to annoy other people on the bus, but certainly it's not on the lowest setting.
Lives-On's ears twist between the sound from the headset and the sounds from the rest of the garage, and then back again. The ahroun remains wordless for the moment though there's what would be a growl if it weren't so distorted. It's not hostile, but it is wary.
"I'm with these guys," Monica says, raising the lantern to look past the spot she occupies, not far from Lives-On. "Wouldn't have asked for one if I wasn't." Beat. "You saying we can't hear it if we keep going?"
"First," the voice rasps, "the beginning of an answer. You would think of it as reality. I have called it the Consensus, and others have done the same. What you see is a wound. It's blood, of a sort. Of a kind." They can all hear a rattling breath being drawn in, though it sounds vaguely mechanical coming from the headsets. "Continue as you like. I have no interest in stopping you." As they reach the third level, they can see more tendrils. Most of them are on the ceiling, snaking across from another ramp, another, leading downward, but some are on the walls. Some are fat. Some thin. Many branch off into smaller tendrils, in different directions. Most all of these are as unmoving as the first, but here and there, they can see an end wiggling, or a part of the wall or floor darkening as one forms seemingly from nothing at all.
Lives-On looks around again, the growl having faded into a whuff of query looking for the only-heard speaker. The ahroun is still wary, that much is clear. And he moves, so that he's not quite in front of Monica, but such that he can swing his head to slightly slow her path or progress. We stay together, he reminds the group, firmly.
Karin continues along with the others, but she does ask, "And what of you, then? An observer? One who tends the wound? Studies it?"
As she continues to push through, Briari listens to the voice with a frown on her voice. "Rumor is there is another warper out there that is kinda watching this whole thing." She says as she trudges on with them.
As they go, Felix keeps half an eye out for the spot the Queen-mage was killed. "Last time I was down here, guy bled a buncha black stuff a lot like this," he observes, "wondered then if it was maybe the same kinda shit…" It's a question, despite not entirely sounding like it.
Monica's more confrontational attitude seems to dissipate in light of the response, something about it striking a chord, but it doesn't look like it's something she can put her finger on. She instead eyes Lives-On with a 'no kidding' sort of look, the tendrils afforded as much scrutiny as everything else within the structure. She glances to Briari, a frown etched over her own expression, and motions for everyone to continue moving. As carefully as possible.
"Take lupus form," she murmurs to Lives-On, hand clasping the mic to muffle it— as if that'll do any good. "This could get real cramped, real fast." Then, over the headset: "Last I checked, this was the 'Nothing,'" she says to their impromptu teacher, "and these tendrils have been compared to signs of its hunger." Beat. "So, in your analogy, is it the blood, or the wound? Or both?" She keeps moving, doing her best to find the easiest pathways through any chokepoints, though she'll stop people with a hand motion if it gets to be too much. "Or would you rather just tell the story the way you see fit? Either way, we're listening."
"An observer, yes," the stranger confirms. "For a long time now. But occasionally, I have also been a teacher." The next ramp looks harder to navigate, although they should be able to. There are more tendrils along the floor, more of them are mobile, and in a few spots the strange substance seems to have actually puddled. "The creature you refer to also had questions, but no patience for the answers, and no time to learn it, as you proved." He doesn't sound terribly upset about the matter. "Ultimately he was a slave. He would have only found a new master here, not power." A crackling wheeze. "It was exactly the same. The blood of the Consensus. It was already eating him." Presumably to Monica, the voice says, "It is both, in a way. You cannot see the Not. Only signs of its presence. This is the rotting Reality-stuff that flows always outward. Symptoms of an infection, but not the infection itself. That distinction is important."
Karin says softly, perhaps mostly to herself, "Something tells me that this wound, this Nothing, will take more than simply granting an Empress a new name to heal."
Lives-On shifts down to lupus with a bit of a grumble, but it does give him easier footing as they continue onwards. And he keeps up with Monica now, nearly at her ankles, rather than falling back. Maybe we have been looking at it all wrong, he muses. Not everything is something to fight. The last bit of remark is almost violence in and of itself, teeth bared, the ahroun on edge despite the smallness of the moon.
Reaching up to tap at her glasses here and there as she makes her way through, Briari's glasses take small snap shots to be uploaded later to her phone. She continues to listen to the voice through the radio, studying every word, vocal inflections and tone.
Felix looks rather satisfied with that answer about the 'creature', stepping carefully as they continue. "So I guess the question's how d'you get to the actual infection an' fight THAT?"
Monica glances occasionally towards the others to make sure they're not having trouble navigating what's swiftly becoming a maze, but makes it a point to only do so when she's got some room for it. Lives-On's observation gets a nod, his proximity not seeming to bother the Fury all that much. For now.
"You sound ill," she says, switching the hand she holds the light in to keep her arm from getting tired, some of the puddles inspected for signs of movement. Either way, they're given as wide a berth as she's able to give them. "This 'Nothing' trying to be the 'master' of you, too?" she asks, distracted by the new obstacles but not so much to detract from the conversational tone. For now. "What can you tell us about it? About healing it?"
The response is a dry chuckle, and another wheeze. "I could talk to you for days about it. But healing? I have never been a healer. It has never been an interest. I will tell you this, however. I have provided a tool. A vaccine, if you will. Unfortunately I am not in a position to figure out how to utilize it, but the creation was… arduous. It required a great deal of work. Failures. Sacrifice. Whatever you plan to do with this infection, you will need my tool to get close without being infected yourselves. And you will need your own skills to get past what guardians will remain."
You paged Sheogorath with 'Any change in smells/sounds as they get further in?'.
Sheogorath pages: None.
Clanking her wrists together, Briari's gauntlets slip back down into the chunky braclets upon her wrists. Running a hand back through her hair, she tilts her head curiously. "Where can we find this vaccine at?"
Lives-On tilts his head and keeps on going forward, but he's slowed down somewhat, attention paid more to what he hears of the story than to his surroundings. Enough attention is paid to miss stepping in any of the puddles, although somewhat narrowly, which gets a short snapping of his jaws at the air.
Karin asks, as an addition to Briari's question, "And just as importantly, how do we use it when it is recovered?" She moves slowly and very, very carefully along with the group.
Felix doesn't ask anything this time, though he looks thoughtful. Maybe the others have asked what he would have, or maybe he hasn't got a current question, but something about what he's been hearing seems to ring a quiet bell.
Monica ducks to chance placing a hand on Lives-On's shoulder to steady him, in a way, the touch light and inoffensive beyond being, well— a touch. "Easy," she says gently. "Take it slow." Then, to Karin, she says, "He said he doesn't know how to utilize it. As for where— I've got a bad feeling we know that already." She continues on her way. "Ghost," she says. "Or maybe the— alter-ego of hers that Salem and Val saw in here."
"Someone who doesn't belong," the voice responds to Briari's question. "Ah, but you already have an idea. Good. I suspect it's within your capabilities to figure out a means. I can puzzle on the matter, but at this distance, I would only have speculation." Their path forward isn't blocked now, but it's a dicey matter. Level 5, as the painted number on the wall proclaims, is covered in tendrils of a variety of thicknesses and activity. Puddles are far more numerous, and the surfaces of some wriggle like worms. There's yet another ramp leading downward… surely five levels was enough for this garage? And at the edge of the ramp, they can catch a glimpse of a figure, about as insubstantial as smoke before it vanishes. It may have moved downward. It may well have disappeared.
Lives-On tilts his head to one side for a moment, and calms a little, bumping his head against Monica's hand as they continue. The Gnawer is missing some of the context of the story, it would seem, but his focus has swung back to their surroundings, and there's a soft bark of not-quite-alarm. Lives-on saw something. Someone.
"Ghost is the cure? Should we set up a blood bank or something? Outside of sacrificing her, how else could we make it work?" Briari asks the voice as she steps forward, spying the figure in the darkness and pointing it out as long as her cyber senses allow her to visualize it, then starts to sweep the area as her eyes give a rapid flicker as she moves through the spectrum of senses to see if she can catch a life form.
"Touchin' the ooze makes you sick, an' you don't get better," Felix says, "Mother's Touch don't fix it, Cleansin' don't neither, only thing that's cured is touchin' Ghost's blood. Sick person touches it, they get better; Ghost gets sick an' it goes away in a day or so." Possibly the bell that was ringing before. "But even if she got drained of blood completely ain't no way that could be enough to cure all the places we seen this shit, so it gotta be somethin' less cut-throat'n that. Though…" He trails off, and the next seems directed to the unseen voice, "You're sayin' vaccine, not cure. So does that mean what it's already got ain't curable, just somethin' 'bout Ghost can stop it gettin' anythin' else?"
Karin's full attention is on maintaining her balance as she avoids tendrils; the distraction may well be why she asked her last question. She's no klutz, at least, but neither is she the most nimble of individuals, so it's certainly not easy.
Monica says a soft, "Dammit," under her breath at the response— or, more likely, at what's ahead, quietly accepting the acknowledging head-bump from the Ahroun. She chews on the inside of her lip for a moment, her gaze similarly centered on the figure before it dissipates. "Sounded that way to me," she says to Felix, though she doesn't sound thrilled about it.
Which leads, of course, to: "All right," she says, doing her best to figure out a pathway, holding up a hand to indicate to the others to hold up for now. "We've already heard from a warper that one of his own went and screwed around with her in some way— 'gave' her immunity, through some process she doesn't understand. One you said yourself was arduous. So, you've clearly got a vested interest. More importantly, you obviously want something out of this, and part of that is us 'succeeding,' in one way or another. So why lead us around by the nose? Why be vague?" She pauses, staying where she is, and indicating to the others to continue doing the same. "Actually, come to think of it— why not lend us a hand, here? You've survived this shit for long enough to know the way of it, at least to some degree— and we've got standing orders to bring some information on this shithole back to our leaders. Giving up now when the others got further isn't an option."
"Sacrifice would be a wasteful overreaction," the voice wheezes in reply, "unless you were certain of the results. Your friend has a better idea of it. I use 'vaccine' to be specific, as it is the best description of her potential, if not entirely perfect." There's a pause, a small crackle on the headsets. "I am only sometimes deliberately vague. You must understand that communication is… difficult for me, these days. I must fit complex thoughts into words that do not fit them well, at best, and it requires effort on my part to reach out to you in this fashion. But I can attempt to answer questions, if you continue to ask. For instance, a question of mine would be: what information do you think you'll find here? What sort of 'hand' are you looking for?"
Lives-On pushes a little bit at Monica's ankles, not entirely happy with being stopped, and there's a low whine that follows, but it's not truly protest. Instead, the ahroun sits, and tilts his head. Finding the extent of this? Finding how much it changes in between? Lupus communication is strained by the jackal-voice, but this is offered to both the Furies and his tribemate with a pointed look that suggests he'd like it asked to whatever or whomever it is they're talking to.
"Something concrete, to start with," Monica replies, shooting a look at Lives-On's protest, not terribly interested in losing her footing right now. Thankfully, though, that stops. "We can't just go back to our leaders and say 'so, a voice in our head told us we've got a vaccine.' I mean, sure, that's information, that's something, but even if we buy it, we've got no way of backing up anything you're saying with any real evidence that we're not working against our own interests. As for offering a hand?" She pauses. "Fuck," she says under her breath; then louder, "I don't know. Making a path we can actually get through without running the risk of getting eaten alive by this crap is one way of doing it. Proving this is just another 'wound' that doesn't warrant any further attention. I know it's not easy, and I know it takes effort," even if she really doesn't know how much, but who cares about details? "but it'd go a hell of a long way towards getting the brass to listen to what we have to say about it."
The old raspy voice chuckles again, although it seems more air than sound. "There is nothing concrete when it comes to what you are dealing with. Allow me to demonstrate: the garage you have entered was built four levels deep. Where, then, are you standing now?"
Felix looks around at the garage, flashlight beam hunting the floor-label. "Looks like concrete to me," he mutters, and aloud, "….5. So either somethin' added a floor an' figured it'd be all correct an' label it, or… I don't even know what." He glances to Lives-On, then adds, "Friend here wants to know about findin' out the extent of this is, or findin' out how much it changes in between."
Karin says, "Reality distortion on this side of the Gauntlet, and without a hint of the Wyld. Perhaps to broaden the previous question, what rules have you discovered for all of this? While it may not be akin to an Umbral Realm, the fact that we're still in something similar to a parking garage suggests that it interacts with this realm in specific ways, rather than random ones."
The ahroun's tail thumps once against the floor, and he looks once in the direction of the next ramp down. How far down? Lives-On asks, then, and nudges at Monica's ankles ankles with his nose once more.
Monica quirks a brow at the answer. "This really isn't a choice time to play with semantics," she says flatly, looking around at all the wiggly bits to make sure none of them are dealing with much more than being wiggled at. "You know what I meant, but if that's all you've got to say about it, then—" she lets out a slow breath, "fine," said with a surprising lack of petulance. "All right. Can't fault me for trying." She quiets as Felix relays the questions from Lives-On that she'd missed, frowning as both she and Briari both fail to find anything that looks remotely 'safe' within the obstacle course, another sharp look shot at the Ahroun. This time, it comes with a light, not-meant-to-connect swat.
"I'd like to hear why there's a carbon copy of our 'vaccine' down on— whatever floor she got found in, too," she says.
"There are no rules," the voice replies. "But as long as the Consensus holds some sway, there are some limits. The worse the injuries, the less restrained. This injury is quite deep. The quiet one wants to know how far down? Sometimes you can't get this far. Sometimes you can walk until your legs are bloody stumps and still not find the end. That has happened to a few. Two stayed on this level for a very long time, going down, and down, but never moving. They reached a sixth. Possibly the source, but again, distances are fairly meaningless. Understand, this thing cannot create. It can warp. It can bend. It has a… memory, if you can accept that imperfect word. It can 'remember' certain things it has encountered, but never correctly, never how they were. So I do not know why there are now two vaccines. Perhaps there aren't. Perhaps the second won't work. Perhaps she will. I expect it will sort itself out one way or another, but for the time being, consider her a symptom of what is happening to your Consensus. It says there cannot be two of the same exact person at the same exact time in two different places. And yet, there might be. Why, why. That is not an answer I have." He pauses for another, wheezy breath. "You are not on a side of the Gauntlet. There is no barrier here. It's often one of the first things to be torn away. Hmm. But anyway, if you are so interested in seeing what distortion you might personally find, there is little I can do to help. Not nothing. But little."
Karin asks those present, "Can any of you perform Reveal the Shadow? I'd very much like to know how the distortion on this side of the Gauntlet is affecting the Penumbra in the area, or if it's even accessible from here."
Felix's brow furrows at the voice's mention of the lack of barrier, and he pauses for a moment, just to try peeking across. Not that he's much good at it regardless, so if it really isn't there at all, it may well be indistinguishable from just failing. "Nope," he tells Karin, probably less than necessarily.
Lives-On twists one ear as he listens to most of the answer. For the most part, though, he's looking ahead of them, and then looks at where the ramp further down— where the figure disappeared— was, and then there's a shrug of fur. All too human an expression, and then the ahroun's sidestepped around the Fury ragabash and keeps going, ears tilted to catch any more sounds, alert for any more scents. He's being careful and sure with his footing rather than particularly fast, though.
Monica glances towards Karin. "It's something we can study later," she says. "For now, though, I think maybe we should—" Annnd then Lives-On is pushing past her, the Fury making a grab for fur, or a tail, or something, but she does her best to maintain her footing above all else. If successful, "God dammit," is hissed out. "You need light, jackass. Senses aren't gonna do a hell of a lot of good if it turns pitch black in there."
"Foolish," the voice murmurs in their ears. "But not terribly unexpected." Monica is certainly correct; beyond the reach of her lantern, there's no light at all, not even a reflection from the flashlights off the wet, oozy tendrils or puddles.
Sheogorath pages: He can… hear things. Movement. It's not clear if that's the tendrils moving enough to make noise, or something else. Something in the distance sounds heavy though. And then he can hear a voice, also distant. He knows that voice! It's Ky, or the boy Ky used to be, when they were both much younger and had far less scars.
It's enough to slow him down, and the three step's he's gotten is far enough before he sits down again, carefully with maybe a foot of space in total between him and one of the puddles. He's not quite at the edge of the light of her lantern, but he's closer than the rest of them. That way, comes the insistent whine, but the ahroun is so much more sure of it than he was earlier. There's a voice. That way.
Karin tells Lives-On, "Not a voice that the rest of us hear. Perhaps you might share what this one told you, rather than charging after it alone?"
Felix sees absolutely nothing change, which is not exactly shocking. He shrugs slightly, though Lives-On's movement gets a step after him, and then a stop when the Lupus does (and when Monica points out the issue with continuing— though at least Felix does have a flashlight).
Not what, who, Lives-On says. Frustration is easier to read and nearly impossible for the ahroun to mask in lupine form, and evident in the posture of his sitting. And then he traces his steps back towards Monica. That is a light, he says, and proceeds to attempt to carefully— if a little bit of a subjective term when grabbing with teeth and jaws— get it from the Fury's hand. Preferably without biting her, too much.
"I know it is," Monica says tersely, "that's why I— Hey!"
The unexpected grab-and-hold doesn't leave the Fury nearly enough time to loosen her own grip, and she finds herself briefly jerked forward, the sudden imbalance once she does let go forcing one foot to shift back in an attempt to steady herself, "Shit," hissed out sharply, just a split second before her heel goes splashing into the edge of a squirming puddle. What was likely to be a royal chewing out gets cut off at the pass, her breath caught and held as she jerks her foot away as quickly as possible— assuming she even gets that far.
Shit, indeed.
Karin asks, "And who are you hearing? There are many places in the Umbra where the spirits use a tactic like that — hearing a friend, a loved one — to lure you to your death. This could easily be something sim…" And then the Gnawer is forgotten, whether he charges forward or turns to try and help. Assuming there's space on the ground to safely plant her feet, she'll blur to crinos so that she's in a form where she can more easily catch her tribemate, physically lifting her off the ground if necessary to keep her from falling or to remove her from the substance.
In an instant, no, not even half as long, it's no longer a puddle. It's a surging heaving mass of tendrils that seize around her ankle, then her leg, then around her waist, and pull her down. Liquid should not have such force, not even thick, oozy liquid, but it's not alone, as the hanging tendrils along the walls come alive with motion as well, and not a few latch onto the Fury's torso, face, even one arm. Every last one of them feels a rush in their ears, air, but not air, not fully sound, merely the sense that the entire room is suddenly in motion and aware of them, them specifically.
You paged Sheogorath with 'Can he still hear Ky?'.
Sheogorath pages: Yes, if he can focus through that, though it's faint and decidedly less clear now.
"Fuck!" Felix exclaims, lunging toward Monica as if to try to yank her away from it as well, but he stops suddenly as Karin's doing the same, and shoots a glance back the way they came, checking the exit path before he focuses on the puddle that's going for the ragabash and starts yipping and growling annoyingly at it in his human voice, dancing carefully away from it in the spots that seem still safe while he tries to distract it from the prey it thinks it's got.
Lives-On grasps the lantern in his jaw and then alarm and realisation of what has happened sets in as the tendrils start to move, though one ear twists back towards 'down' at whatever sound the rest of them are not hearing. Lights! Whatever reason the Gnawer ahroun has for that isn't immediately clear, but then as he moves away from the others, not a charge but some steps until he is sure that he isn't taking away their light source, and once he is far enough away there is what would be a battle-cry…
If he weren't jackaled. It's a loud, squeaky 'look at me!' to the ooze. And then the ahroun shifts up to crinos, the lantern dropped into one hand, and that yell gets louder even as he takes another step further down. ~Come and get me!~ he cries out at the suddenly active ooze. ~I should have died long ago!~
It all happens so rapidly that the acute scent of Monica's raw panic is painfully easy to catch, mere moments before an outright, agonized scream is blotted out by the roiling mass. The struggle is immediate, the Fury tapping into every ounce of will and Rage she's got—if only out of sheer, primal reflex—to shift upwards into her war form, defying the crushing hold as best she's able, deaf and blind to the Garou that are doing their best to help. Judging by what muffled sounds break through the seething knot that covers her face and muzzle, it's a goddamn miracle she hasn't succumbed to a fox frenzy, but this isn't much better.
Lives-On's challenge is met with a loud, echoing shriek-roar, and the sound of something very heavy moving, enough to cause the concrete floor to jitter slightly with the steps… but it doesn't come from the ramp leading down, it's coming from the one leading up, and the edge of their lights catch just the shadow of something very tall, and seemingly furred, that seems to take up all the ramp's space, possibly more than the ramp actually has.
Karin and Monica's struggle together is almost not enough, and for a few horrifying seconds it isn't, but then Karin manages to yank her friend free. Tendrils cling and squirm to the Fury like live snakes, a few shedding off onto Karin in the struggle before falling, still wriggling, to the floor between them. They seem to dissolve her fur where they touch, which is less than they've been doing to Monica.
Okay, Felix has at least learnt a thing: that Gift isn't useful on ooze. Well, damn. Once that's clear, he darts in to try to help Karin with straight-up pulling Monica away instead, shifting as well as he goes.
Lives-On continues the loud, yet still somehow squeaky yell at the thing, now wordless, waving his lantern somewhat. The shadow has him moving through, claws slashing at any tentacles that happen to be in the way or near him, to put himself somewhat between the potential threat and the other Garou. ~I have had nightmares scarier than you!~ he shouts. Everything to draw the ooze's— and whatever else that is— attention to himself and away from them.
The struggle hits an absolute fever pitch even as Monica's pulled away from the writhing mess, the Ragabash striking out to get those things away from her, off of her, the clawed hands that hold her met first with violent attempts to break free, followed by a choked, ragged cry that somehow manages to be profoundly more agonized than that initial scream. This time, though, no amount of willpower is enough to pull her out of the fox frenzy she enters, form dissolving to lupus just as quickly as it'd shot up to crinos.
For as rapidly as it all takes place, though, that final shift is somehow—mercifully—enough to put an end to the even the attempts to escape, leaving one, or both her tribemate and the remaining Gnawer with a thrashing wolf instead of a panicked monster that starts to falter almost immediately. Flailing forelegs become even more uncoordinated, jaws gnashing down with less power than they ought to, until all that's left is unnatural, spasmic twitching.
Avenges-the-Past snarls with surprise and pain as her fur dissolves, and again when Monica's near frenzy leaves shallow gashes on her arms and chest, and she nearly loses grip and balance alike. To recover the latter, she has to release the former, though she does her best to try and direct the frenzying wolf at Felix, so that with luck, he can keep her from bolting and getting herself killed.
Bear. Bear. It's far too large, far too misshapen, but that's what the mind insists the thing is that enters the level with them, far too gigantic to fit on four legs, let alone two, and yet fitting with room to spare all the same. It must be twenty feet high as it rears back, screaming with a human voice mixed with grinding metal. From the shoulders down, this assessment might make some sense… it's vaguely bear-like, though one forelimb is fatter and longer than the other, and the fur seems to be rotting off of its body. But above, the vaguely bear shaped head is split right in two, right down the middle, opening to either side down the length of its thick neck in something that says both 'two halves of a bear's head' and 'giant, pincer-like jaws'. A black and purple tongue slavers wildly in the middle of it, somehow echoing the wriggling of the black oozy tendrils. It moves toward Lives-On with predatory purpose, unhurried, but not nearly slow enough.
Monica is cold to the touch, and stiff despite her twitching, cold like a corpse that's somehow still alive. As consciousness completely flees her, she returns to homid, but she's still breathing. Shallow, halting breaths, but breathing.
The old man's voice hisses from the forgotten and discarded headsets. "You try my patience. I can remove you, but it will be the last favor without firm promises."
Lives-On twists his attention to the headset and the voice, and says. ~Them! Save them.~ He's continuing to move towards the massive bear, even seeing what it is, undeterred. To the air, he adds, ~Tell Kaz, and Salem, and tell Dives-Deep, I am sorry.~ For what is left unsaid even as the ahroun once again screams wordlessly at the thing, charging toward it now in order to try to tear the crap out of anything he can reach.
~Fuck!~ Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew curses again, trying to keep hold of Monica while she struggles wolfishly, a small growl as her claws find purchase, but in the end he's holding the unconscious Fury in his arms— and his tribemate is charging off at a monster. ~Lives—!~ He looks between them and starts to try to hand the Ragabash on to Avenges-the-Past, looking about ready to try to go after Lives-On and— drag him back? Help him fight? Probably the latter; everything about him says fight rather than flight just now, but there's that voice from the headsets, and he just about grinds his teeth in an effort of will. "Please," he grinds out in a rough parody of English, and since the voice has shown the appearance of understanding their other speech, ~All of us if you can, please. Then we talk promises. Okay?~
Once Monica returns to her birth form, Avenges-the-Past will accept her from Chugs and sling the unconscious Ragabash over one shoulder for ease of transport, using the arm on that side to hold her in place. While she might hope that the voice can get them all out, she's starting to look for alternatives. ~I don't feel the Gauntlet here at all.~ No escape there, it seems.
Lives-On lunges at the bear monstrosity, easily four times his size, far more his weight. His speed allows him the first blow, a spurt of black oily not-blood from the thing's chest. The thing bats a heavy, clawed paw down at him, and the last thing any of them see is it connecting with bone crushing force. There's a sharp static hiss as every single one of their instruments sparks out. The bulbs in the flashlights pop. The lantern goes black. The headsets release a single screech of feedback, and they feel something unpleasant inside, like something has grabbed them in their very spirits and yanked… back.
Everything is dark.
Everything is silent.
It feels like an hour and less than a second mingled, in which the only possible sensation is a bone chilling cold. And then noise. Light. The sputtering streetlamp seems like a beacon compared to where they've just been, the distant cars like a rush of pure noise. All of the Garou find themselves lying on the ground just between the security booth and the beginning of the sloped ramp down into the garage. All of their equipment, burned out, broken, smelling faintly of smoke, is scattered about them.
Also broken, unmoving, utterly crushed is the lifeless homid form of Jeremiah, no longer Lives-On, recognizable only just despite his caved in skull and torn face.
It takes her a moment to recover from the shock of the transport, and another moment to realize that they're all back in St. Claire, but then the Fury Galliard sets Monica down gently and shifts back down to homid. Once Karin sees Jeremiah, she'll move to check on him as well, though fairly confident of what she'll find even before she gets there. She didn't know him well at all, but there's sorrow in her expression as she looks down at him.
Felix blinks a couple times as they're back in… well, reality, from his point of view at least, and glances around. He melts back down as far as Glabro, sighing, "Aw, Jer," as he looks at his tribemate, and runs a hand through his own hair. He doesn't go help Karin check. She has that handled, and he's pretty sure what she's going to find too. "…a'ight. We gather our shit, we gather our folks, we get Jer to the Library an' Monica to Ghost," he says, "Reckon our friend'll find us fine when he wants to have that talk." He suits word to deed, though he leaves most of the stuff-gathering to the others, instead moving the dead and unconscious to the car in which they came. Probably Monica's, and he knows what her keys look like, so he probably hasn't even got to break in.
The moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (39% full).
Tuesday evening; almost all of the offices have cleaned out, and the construction crew working on the foundation of what a large banner proclaims will be Hilliard Memorial Hospital (coming Spring 2018!) have gone home for the day. Traffic has mostly cleared, as much as it ever does in this part of St. Claire, and the only real signs of activity are from a few late strollers, and the lighted but blinds drawn windows of either a few workers staying late in their offices, or janitorial staff. Blocks away, the traffic is thicker, the sounds of cars and car horns louder, and occasionally the routine sound of an emergency siren wailing into the oncoming night, but here, at the entrance to the old hospital parking garage, it's as if the rest of the world has passed the place by. It's a squat building sat across the road from the large hospital lot, but there are no lights to advertise it, and only the flicker of a street lamp that's close, but not close enough, sheds any illumination on it at all. The entrance is blocked by a single rusted chain. The security booth looks long abandoned, with a cracked window and the door not fully latched. Graffiti, the work of both gang signs and street artists, paints the walls, the booth, and even a bit of the ramp that leads down into the pitch darkness of the garage itself.
Monica comes prepared, at least, with many-an-illuminating-item strapped and secured into a backpack so none of the bits and pieces rattle around or make too much noise. The ends of two broken chairlegs peek out from the zipped portion— backups, in case any of the battery-powered light sources crap out— and anyone lacking a proper flashlight is handed one of the LED variety. Not super cheap, but not exactly high-end, either.
"Anyone who's comfortable with a flare," Monica says, inspecting the chain on the door, "you should say it now. I'd rather divvy up supplies now, rather than later. Worth mentioning, though: I've only got two of them on me, though, so only use them if it's an emergency." Like, say, if this place decides to drain battery life.
She looks around the surrounding area a couple times, doing her best to discern if there's anyone who's paying even the slightest bit of attention to them. "Just remember what I said earlier," she continues, not so much speaking as an authority but more as the de-facto 'troup leader' of this operation, "everyone together. No running off on your own. No heroics. We're here to see what the place looks like, and report back."
"I got a backpack full of military grade flashlights as well, headsets and walkie talkies with a five gigahertz frequency so we won't cross band over other spectrums," Briari says as she unzips her bag, starting to hand them out to everyone who wants one. "These are super comfortable also. We should be able to hear each other crystal clear through the lines." After setting herself up, she slams her bracelets together by the wrists which start to unpack themselves into the large gold bracers that slip over her arms. There is a click-clack sound as they settle into place.
Jeremiah hangs near and slightly behind Felix, almost a looming ahroun shadow. He's said no more than his introduction— and with good reason, the Jackal voice squeaky and far from silent— since they first caught up with the rest of the Garou. There's a nod after Monica speaks, and then the ahroun moves over and takes two of the flashlights, one of which is handed towards Felix with a tilt of his head. After that, Jeremiah puts his into one of the many pockets of his outermost coat, though it seems that he's keeping a hand on it nonetheless.
Karin does a cursory scan for people around them, but mostly she leaves that to those with more skill in that area. Her own attention focuses on the path ahead. "I'll just use a flashlight, though I could use a second one as a backup. And I do have matches as well, should we need them."
"I'm fine with 'em," Felix says to Monica, and accepts what gear he's given. The flashlight Jeremiah passes on gets flicked on — and then off again when it briefly makes the ground in front of him do an imitation of daylight. "Not bad," he says, and settles one of the headsets in place. "I got a lighter," he adds to Karin's match mention, with a shrug, "…an' some sparklers. If we end up needin' to draw some light doodles or somethin'."
"Thanks," Monica says gently to Briari, accepting the headset and wordlessly urging the others to take them, as well. "Matches are good," she says. She digs around in her pocket with her free hand, the other still holding aloft a gaudy, battery powered camping lantern. "I've got my lighter, too," she says, seconding Felix, "if anyone needs it."
She looks down into the parking garage as she gets the earpiece set up, taps it a couple times, takes a breath, and says: "Now, okay… from what I hear, people tend to— wig out a little when they get close to this stuff," carefully stepping over the chain and motioning for the others to follow suit. "So— let's not take any chances. If you hear anyone say anything—and I mean anything—that sounds really— wrong, or out of character, especially over the earpiece, doublecheck to make sure you heard right, even if you think you're being a nuisance." She waits for a time to flick on the lantern for now, preferring instead to get further away from the sight of the general public before powering it on.
"Same goes for if you see anything you think shouldn't be there," she says. "My hope is that keeping a clear line of communication between all of us'll help keep us grounded."
"Just to let you know, the Nothing …this ooze stuff? It absorbs fire, so throwing cocktails or flame throwers or anything at it doesn't really help." Briari says as she gives a nod of her head. "Even my gauntlets here when I was punching a oozed up spiral. It was like it was trying to extinguish my blasts." She clinks them together a few times.
A few cars pass as they talk, but glimpses of the drivers suggest none so much as glance their way. As the parking garage seems to have been forgotten by its surroundings, so too do the small gathered Garou, at least to the mundane world. The ramp leads downward to the first level…lights reveal moss along the walls, tire marks on the ramp itself, garbage rotting here and there where the two meet. It's chilly, but as they descend, it seems to get a little colder. Before them, their lights illuminate a few cars, parked as though their owners might be returning any minute, as well as piles of old leaves, a seemingly locked door on either side of the level, and a painted '1' on the wall, near what are clearly elevator doors, albeit ones that surely haven't been used in a long, long time.
Karin notes, "Nothing significant as far as Wyld energies, at least thusfar. If that changes, I'll let you know. With some of what I've been told of the place, I'd wondered if there might be." She, too, takes a headset and does a radio check to help get used to the device and make sure she can use it properly.
Jeremiah furrows his brows, and somewhat awkwardly takes one of the radios, getting it set up as they go, before retrieving the flashlight from his pocket. It's sized enough to make a decent baton, which seems to be Jer's current use for it. He looks around, and furrows his brows a little bit more, the frown turning fully to a scowl and even the attempt at a whisper is tinged with the squeaking Jackal-voice. "Too damn quiet," he notes.
"Impression I got is we don't wanna touch this shit, neither," Felix says, "if we can help it." He keeps the flashlight out, apparently to use as a flashlight, though he doesn't turn it back on until they get to where the dim starts to shade into dark. He looks around as he goes, thoughtfully. "Didn't get a lotta chance to really take this place in, last time I was here…"
Monica nods at the information she's given, both from Karin and Briari, a quick glance back towards the streets made before she flicks on the lantern, and bam. Let there be light!
Or, at least, non-conical light. It does a good job of brightening the entire area. Not exactly stealthy, but that's not what they're here for.
She takes a moment to listen closely to any noises coming from up ahead once the talk comes to a close for the time being, though she does acknowledge Felix's observation with another nod. Doesn't tell the others to shush, for the moment, preferring instead to scrutinize her surroundings at those times that listening is as much of an option.
The extra light reveals no lurking dangers, merely more of the dilapidated state the garage appears to be in. At the far end of the level, another ramp leads further down, although the lamp light doesn't quite illuminate to what quite yet. Everything seems very quiet. Not even the persistent dripping reported by Val and Salem can be heard, and the sounds of the city seem terribly muted almost as soon as they step properly in.
As she follows after them, Briari taps the side of her head and her eyes give a faint glow as she turns on her cyber senses. She communicates this through the radio as she scans through night vision eyes once they head into the dark.
Karin considers a moment. "As empty as this place looks to be, one of us might want to shift to lupus. Wolf senses might be able to pick up something that we'd otherwise miss."
There is a moment of thought, and then Jeremiah hands the flashlight back off to Felix, and pulls his jacket into place. The ahroun shifts, upward, through crinos with a long pause there before he reaches hispo, and stops rather than going all the way to lupus. His ears flatten back for a moment, and he pads forward. Even lupine and mother's tongue communication is strained with the Jackal, but he does manage, ~I'll try.~
Sheogorath pages: Must, and old leaves. Long dried grease and oil stains. Heavy whiffs of stale gas, none of them recent. He can smell blood and bleach here, but also burned flesh. Most noticeably, he can smell Salem, and Val. He can smell Felix, a scent that seems little older than the one Felix is leaving right now. There are others, but he doesn't recognize them. Other Garou maybe?
Sheogorath pages: And yes, all of that with perception 1. >:)
"Ain't a bad idea," Felix agrees, and glances around right about as his tribemate hands him the flashlight. He sticks it into his pocket, handle outward. For now, he continues along reasonably quietly, scanning their surroundings with the beam of his flashlight.
Monica glances briefly towards Briari in acknowledgement, but keep her eyes largely on the path ahead. To Karin's suggestion, she considers for a time, then— Well, doesn't really get a chance to say anything to the contrary. Jeremiah's already taken the initiative. "I'd be more comfortable with it if one of us was wolf-born," she says, still pushing forward with little more than a glance behind her, "mostly because there's no telling what kind of sensory input we'll be up against, but yeah. Probably not a bad idea."
Lives-On seems as comfortable in his hispo form as he is in homid, at least. His lips pull back from his teeth, and then he continues moving forward with deliberation but not hurrying or going in front of Monica, relaying what he has found. Smells his tribemate. Smells Scar-rhya. Smells the bird woman. Other garou? Blood, chemicals, old car smells. Leaves, and old car smells. His ears press back again as he finishes this.
The second ramp goes down and loops back, putting the next floor directly below the last. There are fewer cars down here, mostly empty spaces. There is only one locked door this time, with a faded sign that indicates it's the stairwell, then the elevator doors, and a large painted '2'. Once again, the opposite end of the floor has a ramp leading downward, but on the ceiling just above it, a small, black, wet looking tendril can be spotted, stretching up from below. It's even colder down here.
Sheogorath pages: As they go down, cold prickles at his nose. Cold doesn't have a smell, but if it did, it might smell like… something like this. The scents seem faded. No Garou, apart from the ones he's with. Far fewer car smells. Damp.
Monica taps her headset and says a soft, "Briari— got any discreet ways of taking a picture of that?" her head nodding towards the tendril.
Glancing over to the tendril, Briari gives a sharp nod of her head. "On it." She says as she starts to scan through the dark towards the tendril, letting her sharper eyes focus as they shift through the spectrum.
Karin seems to be expecting it, this time, when she reports, "Still nothing noteworthy as far as Wyld energies, even with…that present." A look between Briari and Lives-On. "Can either of you determine anything about it?"
What, not even going to ASK Felix? …fair enough, he can't anyway. Maybe if it starts dreaming. As it is, he just eyes it a few moments, following it back down from the roof with his gaze.
"Gets thicker along the ceiling, ramp is clear." Briari calls through the radio as she continues to sweep her gaze through the dark, glancing left and right as she goes.
Lives-On's lips pull back from his teeth as they get down the ramp, as if baring his teeth is going to do something to the tendril. Then, he pauses at the bottom, dragging his claws against the floor. First one front paw, then the other, then the back ones, all of them get the same attention and then he quickens the pace to catch up. Cold, he notes. It's cold. Says the one with the fur.
Monica goes tense for all of a couple heartbeats, attention that was straying past the tendril and further into the parking lot snapping back towards the tendril. "Oh-kay," she says under her breath. "Unless there's some old guy hijacking the signal—" Which seems doubtful. A little more firmly, she says, "Just heard someone say 'do you understand what it is?'" She looks over a the rest of them. "Only thing I understand about it is it's not supposed to be here," she says, to no one in particular, apparently opting to indulge this insanity out loud. "I could speculate more on that, but for now, just assume the answer's 'no.'" She continues to move, noting what Lives-On reports, and starting to feel the chill a bit more prominently, herself. "How about you educate me a little?" she says, then. "Tell me a story while we check the place out? Or maybe you'd rather just waste time fucking with me, in which case— knock yourself out."
Briari's words prove true as they move forward; that tendril winds down overhead, but the ramp itself is clear, there's no risk of coming into contact with it unless they try. There's a certain amount of fuzz in all of their headsets now, crackling, even a tiny bit of feedback, as if one were adjusting an old ham radio, rather than a state of the art communications device. "—a story," says a voice from their headsets. Raspy. Old. Male. "If you're willing to listen. I can, of course, leave you to your own discovery, if you prefer."
Karin says, "I, for one, would love to hear a story." The answer seems to be quite genuine, even if she has no idea who the speaker might be.
You paged Sheogorath with 'Any clue/picking up on presence other than themselves other than the voice?'.
Sheogorath pages: No new scent, no sounds of someone breathing who shouldn't be.
"Big fan of stories," Felix agrees, with a glance toward Monica. He's still fairly close to Jeremiah, so the Hispo may be able to pick up what's coming over his headset. He doesn't have it loud enough to annoy other people on the bus, but certainly it's not on the lowest setting.
Lives-On's ears twist between the sound from the headset and the sounds from the rest of the garage, and then back again. The ahroun remains wordless for the moment though there's what would be a growl if it weren't so distorted. It's not hostile, but it is wary.
"I'm with these guys," Monica says, raising the lantern to look past the spot she occupies, not far from Lives-On. "Wouldn't have asked for one if I wasn't." Beat. "You saying we can't hear it if we keep going?"
"First," the voice rasps, "the beginning of an answer. You would think of it as reality. I have called it the Consensus, and others have done the same. What you see is a wound. It's blood, of a sort. Of a kind." They can all hear a rattling breath being drawn in, though it sounds vaguely mechanical coming from the headsets. "Continue as you like. I have no interest in stopping you." As they reach the third level, they can see more tendrils. Most of them are on the ceiling, snaking across from another ramp, another, leading downward, but some are on the walls. Some are fat. Some thin. Many branch off into smaller tendrils, in different directions. Most all of these are as unmoving as the first, but here and there, they can see an end wiggling, or a part of the wall or floor darkening as one forms seemingly from nothing at all.
Lives-On looks around again, the growl having faded into a whuff of query looking for the only-heard speaker. The ahroun is still wary, that much is clear. And he moves, so that he's not quite in front of Monica, but such that he can swing his head to slightly slow her path or progress. We stay together, he reminds the group, firmly.
Karin continues along with the others, but she does ask, "And what of you, then? An observer? One who tends the wound? Studies it?"
As she continues to push through, Briari listens to the voice with a frown on her voice. "Rumor is there is another warper out there that is kinda watching this whole thing." She says as she trudges on with them.
As they go, Felix keeps half an eye out for the spot the Queen-mage was killed. "Last time I was down here, guy bled a buncha black stuff a lot like this," he observes, "wondered then if it was maybe the same kinda shit…" It's a question, despite not entirely sounding like it.
Monica's more confrontational attitude seems to dissipate in light of the response, something about it striking a chord, but it doesn't look like it's something she can put her finger on. She instead eyes Lives-On with a 'no kidding' sort of look, the tendrils afforded as much scrutiny as everything else within the structure. She glances to Briari, a frown etched over her own expression, and motions for everyone to continue moving. As carefully as possible.
"Take lupus form," she murmurs to Lives-On, hand clasping the mic to muffle it— as if that'll do any good. "This could get real cramped, real fast." Then, over the headset: "Last I checked, this was the 'Nothing,'" she says to their impromptu teacher, "and these tendrils have been compared to signs of its hunger." Beat. "So, in your analogy, is it the blood, or the wound? Or both?" She keeps moving, doing her best to find the easiest pathways through any chokepoints, though she'll stop people with a hand motion if it gets to be too much. "Or would you rather just tell the story the way you see fit? Either way, we're listening."
"An observer, yes," the stranger confirms. "For a long time now. But occasionally, I have also been a teacher." The next ramp looks harder to navigate, although they should be able to. There are more tendrils along the floor, more of them are mobile, and in a few spots the strange substance seems to have actually puddled. "The creature you refer to also had questions, but no patience for the answers, and no time to learn it, as you proved." He doesn't sound terribly upset about the matter. "Ultimately he was a slave. He would have only found a new master here, not power." A crackling wheeze. "It was exactly the same. The blood of the Consensus. It was already eating him." Presumably to Monica, the voice says, "It is both, in a way. You cannot see the Not. Only signs of its presence. This is the rotting Reality-stuff that flows always outward. Symptoms of an infection, but not the infection itself. That distinction is important."
Karin says softly, perhaps mostly to herself, "Something tells me that this wound, this Nothing, will take more than simply granting an Empress a new name to heal."
Lives-On shifts down to lupus with a bit of a grumble, but it does give him easier footing as they continue onwards. And he keeps up with Monica now, nearly at her ankles, rather than falling back. Maybe we have been looking at it all wrong, he muses. Not everything is something to fight. The last bit of remark is almost violence in and of itself, teeth bared, the ahroun on edge despite the smallness of the moon.
Reaching up to tap at her glasses here and there as she makes her way through, Briari's glasses take small snap shots to be uploaded later to her phone. She continues to listen to the voice through the radio, studying every word, vocal inflections and tone.
Felix looks rather satisfied with that answer about the 'creature', stepping carefully as they continue. "So I guess the question's how d'you get to the actual infection an' fight THAT?"
Monica glances occasionally towards the others to make sure they're not having trouble navigating what's swiftly becoming a maze, but makes it a point to only do so when she's got some room for it. Lives-On's observation gets a nod, his proximity not seeming to bother the Fury all that much. For now.
"You sound ill," she says, switching the hand she holds the light in to keep her arm from getting tired, some of the puddles inspected for signs of movement. Either way, they're given as wide a berth as she's able to give them. "This 'Nothing' trying to be the 'master' of you, too?" she asks, distracted by the new obstacles but not so much to detract from the conversational tone. For now. "What can you tell us about it? About healing it?"
The response is a dry chuckle, and another wheeze. "I could talk to you for days about it. But healing? I have never been a healer. It has never been an interest. I will tell you this, however. I have provided a tool. A vaccine, if you will. Unfortunately I am not in a position to figure out how to utilize it, but the creation was… arduous. It required a great deal of work. Failures. Sacrifice. Whatever you plan to do with this infection, you will need my tool to get close without being infected yourselves. And you will need your own skills to get past what guardians will remain."
You paged Sheogorath with 'Any change in smells/sounds as they get further in?'.
Sheogorath pages: None.
Clanking her wrists together, Briari's gauntlets slip back down into the chunky braclets upon her wrists. Running a hand back through her hair, she tilts her head curiously. "Where can we find this vaccine at?"
Lives-On tilts his head and keeps on going forward, but he's slowed down somewhat, attention paid more to what he hears of the story than to his surroundings. Enough attention is paid to miss stepping in any of the puddles, although somewhat narrowly, which gets a short snapping of his jaws at the air.
Karin asks, as an addition to Briari's question, "And just as importantly, how do we use it when it is recovered?" She moves slowly and very, very carefully along with the group.
Felix doesn't ask anything this time, though he looks thoughtful. Maybe the others have asked what he would have, or maybe he hasn't got a current question, but something about what he's been hearing seems to ring a quiet bell.
Monica ducks to chance placing a hand on Lives-On's shoulder to steady him, in a way, the touch light and inoffensive beyond being, well— a touch. "Easy," she says gently. "Take it slow." Then, to Karin, she says, "He said he doesn't know how to utilize it. As for where— I've got a bad feeling we know that already." She continues on her way. "Ghost," she says. "Or maybe the— alter-ego of hers that Salem and Val saw in here."
"Someone who doesn't belong," the voice responds to Briari's question. "Ah, but you already have an idea. Good. I suspect it's within your capabilities to figure out a means. I can puzzle on the matter, but at this distance, I would only have speculation." Their path forward isn't blocked now, but it's a dicey matter. Level 5, as the painted number on the wall proclaims, is covered in tendrils of a variety of thicknesses and activity. Puddles are far more numerous, and the surfaces of some wriggle like worms. There's yet another ramp leading downward… surely five levels was enough for this garage? And at the edge of the ramp, they can catch a glimpse of a figure, about as insubstantial as smoke before it vanishes. It may have moved downward. It may well have disappeared.
Lives-On tilts his head to one side for a moment, and calms a little, bumping his head against Monica's hand as they continue. The Gnawer is missing some of the context of the story, it would seem, but his focus has swung back to their surroundings, and there's a soft bark of not-quite-alarm. Lives-on saw something. Someone.
"Ghost is the cure? Should we set up a blood bank or something? Outside of sacrificing her, how else could we make it work?" Briari asks the voice as she steps forward, spying the figure in the darkness and pointing it out as long as her cyber senses allow her to visualize it, then starts to sweep the area as her eyes give a rapid flicker as she moves through the spectrum of senses to see if she can catch a life form.
"Touchin' the ooze makes you sick, an' you don't get better," Felix says, "Mother's Touch don't fix it, Cleansin' don't neither, only thing that's cured is touchin' Ghost's blood. Sick person touches it, they get better; Ghost gets sick an' it goes away in a day or so." Possibly the bell that was ringing before. "But even if she got drained of blood completely ain't no way that could be enough to cure all the places we seen this shit, so it gotta be somethin' less cut-throat'n that. Though…" He trails off, and the next seems directed to the unseen voice, "You're sayin' vaccine, not cure. So does that mean what it's already got ain't curable, just somethin' 'bout Ghost can stop it gettin' anythin' else?"
Karin's full attention is on maintaining her balance as she avoids tendrils; the distraction may well be why she asked her last question. She's no klutz, at least, but neither is she the most nimble of individuals, so it's certainly not easy.
Monica says a soft, "Dammit," under her breath at the response— or, more likely, at what's ahead, quietly accepting the acknowledging head-bump from the Ahroun. She chews on the inside of her lip for a moment, her gaze similarly centered on the figure before it dissipates. "Sounded that way to me," she says to Felix, though she doesn't sound thrilled about it.
Which leads, of course, to: "All right," she says, doing her best to figure out a pathway, holding up a hand to indicate to the others to hold up for now. "We've already heard from a warper that one of his own went and screwed around with her in some way— 'gave' her immunity, through some process she doesn't understand. One you said yourself was arduous. So, you've clearly got a vested interest. More importantly, you obviously want something out of this, and part of that is us 'succeeding,' in one way or another. So why lead us around by the nose? Why be vague?" She pauses, staying where she is, and indicating to the others to continue doing the same. "Actually, come to think of it— why not lend us a hand, here? You've survived this shit for long enough to know the way of it, at least to some degree— and we've got standing orders to bring some information on this shithole back to our leaders. Giving up now when the others got further isn't an option."
"Sacrifice would be a wasteful overreaction," the voice wheezes in reply, "unless you were certain of the results. Your friend has a better idea of it. I use 'vaccine' to be specific, as it is the best description of her potential, if not entirely perfect." There's a pause, a small crackle on the headsets. "I am only sometimes deliberately vague. You must understand that communication is… difficult for me, these days. I must fit complex thoughts into words that do not fit them well, at best, and it requires effort on my part to reach out to you in this fashion. But I can attempt to answer questions, if you continue to ask. For instance, a question of mine would be: what information do you think you'll find here? What sort of 'hand' are you looking for?"
Lives-On pushes a little bit at Monica's ankles, not entirely happy with being stopped, and there's a low whine that follows, but it's not truly protest. Instead, the ahroun sits, and tilts his head. Finding the extent of this? Finding how much it changes in between? Lupus communication is strained by the jackal-voice, but this is offered to both the Furies and his tribemate with a pointed look that suggests he'd like it asked to whatever or whomever it is they're talking to.
"Something concrete, to start with," Monica replies, shooting a look at Lives-On's protest, not terribly interested in losing her footing right now. Thankfully, though, that stops. "We can't just go back to our leaders and say 'so, a voice in our head told us we've got a vaccine.' I mean, sure, that's information, that's something, but even if we buy it, we've got no way of backing up anything you're saying with any real evidence that we're not working against our own interests. As for offering a hand?" She pauses. "Fuck," she says under her breath; then louder, "I don't know. Making a path we can actually get through without running the risk of getting eaten alive by this crap is one way of doing it. Proving this is just another 'wound' that doesn't warrant any further attention. I know it's not easy, and I know it takes effort," even if she really doesn't know how much, but who cares about details? "but it'd go a hell of a long way towards getting the brass to listen to what we have to say about it."
The old raspy voice chuckles again, although it seems more air than sound. "There is nothing concrete when it comes to what you are dealing with. Allow me to demonstrate: the garage you have entered was built four levels deep. Where, then, are you standing now?"
Felix looks around at the garage, flashlight beam hunting the floor-label. "Looks like concrete to me," he mutters, and aloud, "….5. So either somethin' added a floor an' figured it'd be all correct an' label it, or… I don't even know what." He glances to Lives-On, then adds, "Friend here wants to know about findin' out the extent of this is, or findin' out how much it changes in between."
Karin says, "Reality distortion on this side of the Gauntlet, and without a hint of the Wyld. Perhaps to broaden the previous question, what rules have you discovered for all of this? While it may not be akin to an Umbral Realm, the fact that we're still in something similar to a parking garage suggests that it interacts with this realm in specific ways, rather than random ones."
The ahroun's tail thumps once against the floor, and he looks once in the direction of the next ramp down. How far down? Lives-On asks, then, and nudges at Monica's ankles ankles with his nose once more.
Monica quirks a brow at the answer. "This really isn't a choice time to play with semantics," she says flatly, looking around at all the wiggly bits to make sure none of them are dealing with much more than being wiggled at. "You know what I meant, but if that's all you've got to say about it, then—" she lets out a slow breath, "fine," said with a surprising lack of petulance. "All right. Can't fault me for trying." She quiets as Felix relays the questions from Lives-On that she'd missed, frowning as both she and Briari both fail to find anything that looks remotely 'safe' within the obstacle course, another sharp look shot at the Ahroun. This time, it comes with a light, not-meant-to-connect swat.
"I'd like to hear why there's a carbon copy of our 'vaccine' down on— whatever floor she got found in, too," she says.
"There are no rules," the voice replies. "But as long as the Consensus holds some sway, there are some limits. The worse the injuries, the less restrained. This injury is quite deep. The quiet one wants to know how far down? Sometimes you can't get this far. Sometimes you can walk until your legs are bloody stumps and still not find the end. That has happened to a few. Two stayed on this level for a very long time, going down, and down, but never moving. They reached a sixth. Possibly the source, but again, distances are fairly meaningless. Understand, this thing cannot create. It can warp. It can bend. It has a… memory, if you can accept that imperfect word. It can 'remember' certain things it has encountered, but never correctly, never how they were. So I do not know why there are now two vaccines. Perhaps there aren't. Perhaps the second won't work. Perhaps she will. I expect it will sort itself out one way or another, but for the time being, consider her a symptom of what is happening to your Consensus. It says there cannot be two of the same exact person at the same exact time in two different places. And yet, there might be. Why, why. That is not an answer I have." He pauses for another, wheezy breath. "You are not on a side of the Gauntlet. There is no barrier here. It's often one of the first things to be torn away. Hmm. But anyway, if you are so interested in seeing what distortion you might personally find, there is little I can do to help. Not nothing. But little."
Karin asks those present, "Can any of you perform Reveal the Shadow? I'd very much like to know how the distortion on this side of the Gauntlet is affecting the Penumbra in the area, or if it's even accessible from here."
Felix's brow furrows at the voice's mention of the lack of barrier, and he pauses for a moment, just to try peeking across. Not that he's much good at it regardless, so if it really isn't there at all, it may well be indistinguishable from just failing. "Nope," he tells Karin, probably less than necessarily.
Lives-On twists one ear as he listens to most of the answer. For the most part, though, he's looking ahead of them, and then looks at where the ramp further down— where the figure disappeared— was, and then there's a shrug of fur. All too human an expression, and then the ahroun's sidestepped around the Fury ragabash and keeps going, ears tilted to catch any more sounds, alert for any more scents. He's being careful and sure with his footing rather than particularly fast, though.
Monica glances towards Karin. "It's something we can study later," she says. "For now, though, I think maybe we should—" Annnd then Lives-On is pushing past her, the Fury making a grab for fur, or a tail, or something, but she does her best to maintain her footing above all else. If successful, "God dammit," is hissed out. "You need light, jackass. Senses aren't gonna do a hell of a lot of good if it turns pitch black in there."
"Foolish," the voice murmurs in their ears. "But not terribly unexpected." Monica is certainly correct; beyond the reach of her lantern, there's no light at all, not even a reflection from the flashlights off the wet, oozy tendrils or puddles.
Sheogorath pages: He can… hear things. Movement. It's not clear if that's the tendrils moving enough to make noise, or something else. Something in the distance sounds heavy though. And then he can hear a voice, also distant. He knows that voice! It's Ky, or the boy Ky used to be, when they were both much younger and had far less scars.
It's enough to slow him down, and the three step's he's gotten is far enough before he sits down again, carefully with maybe a foot of space in total between him and one of the puddles. He's not quite at the edge of the light of her lantern, but he's closer than the rest of them. That way, comes the insistent whine, but the ahroun is so much more sure of it than he was earlier. There's a voice. That way.
Karin tells Lives-On, "Not a voice that the rest of us hear. Perhaps you might share what this one told you, rather than charging after it alone?"
Felix sees absolutely nothing change, which is not exactly shocking. He shrugs slightly, though Lives-On's movement gets a step after him, and then a stop when the Lupus does (and when Monica points out the issue with continuing— though at least Felix does have a flashlight).
Not what, who, Lives-On says. Frustration is easier to read and nearly impossible for the ahroun to mask in lupine form, and evident in the posture of his sitting. And then he traces his steps back towards Monica. That is a light, he says, and proceeds to attempt to carefully— if a little bit of a subjective term when grabbing with teeth and jaws— get it from the Fury's hand. Preferably without biting her, too much.
"I know it is," Monica says tersely, "that's why I— Hey!"
The unexpected grab-and-hold doesn't leave the Fury nearly enough time to loosen her own grip, and she finds herself briefly jerked forward, the sudden imbalance once she does let go forcing one foot to shift back in an attempt to steady herself, "Shit," hissed out sharply, just a split second before her heel goes splashing into the edge of a squirming puddle. What was likely to be a royal chewing out gets cut off at the pass, her breath caught and held as she jerks her foot away as quickly as possible— assuming she even gets that far.
Shit, indeed.
Karin asks, "And who are you hearing? There are many places in the Umbra where the spirits use a tactic like that — hearing a friend, a loved one — to lure you to your death. This could easily be something sim…" And then the Gnawer is forgotten, whether he charges forward or turns to try and help. Assuming there's space on the ground to safely plant her feet, she'll blur to crinos so that she's in a form where she can more easily catch her tribemate, physically lifting her off the ground if necessary to keep her from falling or to remove her from the substance.
In an instant, no, not even half as long, it's no longer a puddle. It's a surging heaving mass of tendrils that seize around her ankle, then her leg, then around her waist, and pull her down. Liquid should not have such force, not even thick, oozy liquid, but it's not alone, as the hanging tendrils along the walls come alive with motion as well, and not a few latch onto the Fury's torso, face, even one arm. Every last one of them feels a rush in their ears, air, but not air, not fully sound, merely the sense that the entire room is suddenly in motion and aware of them, them specifically.
You paged Sheogorath with 'Can he still hear Ky?'.
Sheogorath pages: Yes, if he can focus through that, though it's faint and decidedly less clear now.
"Fuck!" Felix exclaims, lunging toward Monica as if to try to yank her away from it as well, but he stops suddenly as Karin's doing the same, and shoots a glance back the way they came, checking the exit path before he focuses on the puddle that's going for the ragabash and starts yipping and growling annoyingly at it in his human voice, dancing carefully away from it in the spots that seem still safe while he tries to distract it from the prey it thinks it's got.
Lives-On grasps the lantern in his jaw and then alarm and realisation of what has happened sets in as the tendrils start to move, though one ear twists back towards 'down' at whatever sound the rest of them are not hearing. Lights! Whatever reason the Gnawer ahroun has for that isn't immediately clear, but then as he moves away from the others, not a charge but some steps until he is sure that he isn't taking away their light source, and once he is far enough away there is what would be a battle-cry…
If he weren't jackaled. It's a loud, squeaky 'look at me!' to the ooze. And then the ahroun shifts up to crinos, the lantern dropped into one hand, and that yell gets louder even as he takes another step further down. ~Come and get me!~ he cries out at the suddenly active ooze. ~I should have died long ago!~
It all happens so rapidly that the acute scent of Monica's raw panic is painfully easy to catch, mere moments before an outright, agonized scream is blotted out by the roiling mass. The struggle is immediate, the Fury tapping into every ounce of will and Rage she's got—if only out of sheer, primal reflex—to shift upwards into her war form, defying the crushing hold as best she's able, deaf and blind to the Garou that are doing their best to help. Judging by what muffled sounds break through the seething knot that covers her face and muzzle, it's a goddamn miracle she hasn't succumbed to a fox frenzy, but this isn't much better.
Lives-On's challenge is met with a loud, echoing shriek-roar, and the sound of something very heavy moving, enough to cause the concrete floor to jitter slightly with the steps… but it doesn't come from the ramp leading down, it's coming from the one leading up, and the edge of their lights catch just the shadow of something very tall, and seemingly furred, that seems to take up all the ramp's space, possibly more than the ramp actually has.
Karin and Monica's struggle together is almost not enough, and for a few horrifying seconds it isn't, but then Karin manages to yank her friend free. Tendrils cling and squirm to the Fury like live snakes, a few shedding off onto Karin in the struggle before falling, still wriggling, to the floor between them. They seem to dissolve her fur where they touch, which is less than they've been doing to Monica.
Okay, Felix has at least learnt a thing: that Gift isn't useful on ooze. Well, damn. Once that's clear, he darts in to try to help Karin with straight-up pulling Monica away instead, shifting as well as he goes.
Lives-On continues the loud, yet still somehow squeaky yell at the thing, now wordless, waving his lantern somewhat. The shadow has him moving through, claws slashing at any tentacles that happen to be in the way or near him, to put himself somewhat between the potential threat and the other Garou. ~I have had nightmares scarier than you!~ he shouts. Everything to draw the ooze's— and whatever else that is— attention to himself and away from them.
The struggle hits an absolute fever pitch even as Monica's pulled away from the writhing mess, the Ragabash striking out to get those things away from her, off of her, the clawed hands that hold her met first with violent attempts to break free, followed by a choked, ragged cry that somehow manages to be profoundly more agonized than that initial scream. This time, though, no amount of willpower is enough to pull her out of the fox frenzy she enters, form dissolving to lupus just as quickly as it'd shot up to crinos.
For as rapidly as it all takes place, though, that final shift is somehow—mercifully—enough to put an end to the even the attempts to escape, leaving one, or both her tribemate and the remaining Gnawer with a thrashing wolf instead of a panicked monster that starts to falter almost immediately. Flailing forelegs become even more uncoordinated, jaws gnashing down with less power than they ought to, until all that's left is unnatural, spasmic twitching.
Avenges-the-Past snarls with surprise and pain as her fur dissolves, and again when Monica's near frenzy leaves shallow gashes on her arms and chest, and she nearly loses grip and balance alike. To recover the latter, she has to release the former, though she does her best to try and direct the frenzying wolf at Felix, so that with luck, he can keep her from bolting and getting herself killed.
Bear. Bear. It's far too large, far too misshapen, but that's what the mind insists the thing is that enters the level with them, far too gigantic to fit on four legs, let alone two, and yet fitting with room to spare all the same. It must be twenty feet high as it rears back, screaming with a human voice mixed with grinding metal. From the shoulders down, this assessment might make some sense… it's vaguely bear-like, though one forelimb is fatter and longer than the other, and the fur seems to be rotting off of its body. But above, the vaguely bear shaped head is split right in two, right down the middle, opening to either side down the length of its thick neck in something that says both 'two halves of a bear's head' and 'giant, pincer-like jaws'. A black and purple tongue slavers wildly in the middle of it, somehow echoing the wriggling of the black oozy tendrils. It moves toward Lives-On with predatory purpose, unhurried, but not nearly slow enough.
Monica is cold to the touch, and stiff despite her twitching, cold like a corpse that's somehow still alive. As consciousness completely flees her, she returns to homid, but she's still breathing. Shallow, halting breaths, but breathing.
The old man's voice hisses from the forgotten and discarded headsets. "You try my patience. I can remove you, but it will be the last favor without firm promises."
Lives-On twists his attention to the headset and the voice, and says. ~Them! Save them.~ He's continuing to move towards the massive bear, even seeing what it is, undeterred. To the air, he adds, ~Tell Kaz, and Salem, and tell Dives-Deep, I am sorry.~ For what is left unsaid even as the ahroun once again screams wordlessly at the thing, charging toward it now in order to try to tear the crap out of anything he can reach.
~Fuck!~ Chugs-the-Mystery-Brew curses again, trying to keep hold of Monica while she struggles wolfishly, a small growl as her claws find purchase, but in the end he's holding the unconscious Fury in his arms— and his tribemate is charging off at a monster. ~Lives—!~ He looks between them and starts to try to hand the Ragabash on to Avenges-the-Past, looking about ready to try to go after Lives-On and— drag him back? Help him fight? Probably the latter; everything about him says fight rather than flight just now, but there's that voice from the headsets, and he just about grinds his teeth in an effort of will. "Please," he grinds out in a rough parody of English, and since the voice has shown the appearance of understanding their other speech, ~All of us if you can, please. Then we talk promises. Okay?~
Once Monica returns to her birth form, Avenges-the-Past will accept her from Chugs and sling the unconscious Ragabash over one shoulder for ease of transport, using the arm on that side to hold her in place. While she might hope that the voice can get them all out, she's starting to look for alternatives. ~I don't feel the Gauntlet here at all.~ No escape there, it seems.
Lives-On lunges at the bear monstrosity, easily four times his size, far more his weight. His speed allows him the first blow, a spurt of black oily not-blood from the thing's chest. The thing bats a heavy, clawed paw down at him, and the last thing any of them see is it connecting with bone crushing force. There's a sharp static hiss as every single one of their instruments sparks out. The bulbs in the flashlights pop. The lantern goes black. The headsets release a single screech of feedback, and they feel something unpleasant inside, like something has grabbed them in their very spirits and yanked… back.
Everything is dark.
Everything is silent.
It feels like an hour and less than a second mingled, in which the only possible sensation is a bone chilling cold. And then noise. Light. The sputtering streetlamp seems like a beacon compared to where they've just been, the distant cars like a rush of pure noise. All of the Garou find themselves lying on the ground just between the security booth and the beginning of the sloped ramp down into the garage. All of their equipment, burned out, broken, smelling faintly of smoke, is scattered about them.
Also broken, unmoving, utterly crushed is the lifeless homid form of Jeremiah, no longer Lives-On, recognizable only just despite his caved in skull and torn face.
It takes her a moment to recover from the shock of the transport, and another moment to realize that they're all back in St. Claire, but then the Fury Galliard sets Monica down gently and shifts back down to homid. Once Karin sees Jeremiah, she'll move to check on him as well, though fairly confident of what she'll find even before she gets there. She didn't know him well at all, but there's sorrow in her expression as she looks down at him.
Felix blinks a couple times as they're back in… well, reality, from his point of view at least, and glances around. He melts back down as far as Glabro, sighing, "Aw, Jer," as he looks at his tribemate, and runs a hand through his own hair. He doesn't go help Karin check. She has that handled, and he's pretty sure what she's going to find too. "…a'ight. We gather our shit, we gather our folks, we get Jer to the Library an' Monica to Ghost," he says, "Reckon our friend'll find us fine when he wants to have that talk." He suits word to deed, though he leaves most of the stuff-gathering to the others, instead moving the dead and unconscious to the car in which they came. Probably Monica's, and he knows what her keys look like, so he probably hasn't even got to break in.