| Logs |
2002 January 01
| NachtMusik |
| Realms |
Retired
| Reality Fault |
General Info
 |
| Realms: NachtMusik Logs |
"Die Young"
Shateishael has, somewhat to his surprise, a pleasant and relatively peaceful few weeks. He spends a bit of time with Nick -- always a pleasure -- as the Ofanite patiently tries to pass on some tips so the Stone angel's driving becomes a tad less... pedestrian. He also borrows Nick's hard-bitten, restored WWII Jeep, and drives it far out towards the foothills that border Nick's spread. The all-terrain nature of the Jeep comes into play more than once in order to get to his desired location... and regardless, he ends up hiking the last miles to the small, spring-watered valley he's searching for.
The valley is where, with Nick's permission, Bear of the Sun released his last few horses when he finally left the Comanche reservation for good. He likes checking in on his wise old lead mare's descendants every few decades or so, making sure the foals of his beautiful and once-carefully-bred painted ponies are still safe and healthy.
Shateishael's also considering Nick's suggestion -- gentling one of the horses just for fun and the pleasure of riding, and to keep his hand in, as it were. Hm... maybe he should return later and give it a try. He could take a bit of time and built a stone shrine too... it'd be relaxing and a nice rite enhancer. Who knows? Maybe some of the folks at the house might like riding too.
Shateishael will call Trent, letting the policeman of the Sword know Slate is available should things get messy in town. He will also quietly ask Tomas if there's been any, er... visible occurrences or anything, concerning either Mackie or Hugo -- he'd be very relieved to know Drew's a little safer from Mackie's inept machinations. He checks with Drew too, to see if the young Seraph knows the name, or any of the friends of, the mysterious Eliite creator of the Sturm und Drag video game. When Slate's in Austin and has free time, he spends some of it quietly lurking around the game, watching patiently to see if anyone a bit absent-minded looking tends to haunt the area.
Tomas only reports, with a shake of his head, that if anything visible had happened, it'd be in the paper by now. Shateishael nods thoughtfully to Tomas, rumbling quietly, "So you think Hugo's more subtle than Mackie?"
Tomas grins. "Nah. Hugo's not Teflon, he's just oily. But he'd probably lose a stand-up fight with Mackie, so... he'll plan ahead."
Shateishael nods once again. That's good enough for him -- now it's Drew's show. He'll either get his act together in regards to his painful Word... or not. Slate's done everything he can think of, at least for now, to help it work out so as to benefit the Symphony and the little Sword Seraph.
Druiel, for his part, doesn't really know who made the game... it was a little before his time. But the story is that the creator made the game as a way to facilitate conflict in the Truce City without outright violence, and that made things more difficult for a local Malphan instigator, who took it upon himself, as demons often do, to take revenge. No one knows the fate of the demon or the angel, but the game is still there. Other than that, he has a few minor notes about the game itself... a few of the secret moves, combos, and a secret about the score: the only way to take the first-place score is to destroy someone completely. "So far," he says, "It's never happened."
Shateishael sighs a little disappointedly, nodding once, "Okay. Nah, I don't need the secret moves stuff. I just want to see if Nick and I can find the guy -- if he's still around, that is. But... who's got high score now, d'you know?" He pauses, then says curiously, "Wait... who'd you learn the secret stuff from?"
Drew grins. "Nobody. It's a preset. Look; see the initials? ELI, JEN, MIK, JRD, GAB, NOV? Archangels. Probably the guy's idea of a homage." He pauses, at the other question, "Heh, well... actually I just tried some stuff I learned playing Street Fighter..." He grins sheepishly.
Shateishael nods, reading the 'homage' scores... then laughs! He scans down the initials, still grinning quietly to himself, looking for the first obvious non-archangel name. The only non-Archangel score is at the very bottom; DRW, 15524. Shateishael raises an eyebrow, then rumbles quietly to Drew, "Hey... are you the only guy that plays this game? Was there another name there that you replaced?"
Drew uhs, then looks down. "Um, yeah... I, uh..." Shateishael tilts his head to regard Drew curiously, waiting until he's ready to answer. Drew looks up, then mutters, "I, um, I think I knocked Laurence off the board." He adds quickly, "Don't tell anyone!"
Shateishael blinks -- then abruptly looks back up at the board, one hand pensively covering his mouth. His shoulders shake for a moment. He gets control of himself again after a moment, and looks back at Drew with a small grin, "I won't, Drew."
Drew murmurs, trying to change the subject, "Uh, you can play the game one-player... but it goes on the fritz at random and eats your quarter. I got my name on the board 'cause the midboss beat the crap out of me. It doesn't hit your soul unless there's two people playing... I guess it's some kind of circuit or something."
Shateishael smiles and lets the subject be changed... he doesn't want to make Drew uncomfortable. Instead he just nods gravely, then hms thoughtfully to himself and shakes his head once, "Well... no luck tracking this guy down so far. Drew, if you hear anything about this guy, would you let me or Nick know, please? And... Ms. Zara said that if the demons knew there might be a Remnant about they'd do terrible things... so can I ask you to tell us directly, please?" He rolls his shoulders a bit, adding uneasily, "I know they're probably bad luck, but... well... gonna try, at least..."
Drew nods. "I don't think he's still around, you ask me, but if I see or hear anything, I'll tell you."
Shateishael says, "Thanks, dude."
Shateishael visits Miles Forman, at some time convenient to the angelic professor, and offers to swap stories of how all the Comanche objects were made and used, in exchange for some information, please? He needs to find a good source of quality metal rods of particular chemical make-ups, and maybe, in time, he'd like to take an apprentice... perhaps the professor knows someone serious who'd be interested in learning how to make swords? He grins as he explains he must pass on his mortal teacher's information -- he suspects an angel of Knowledge will understand that drive quite well!
Miles doesn't know anyone offhand, other than the usual collectors. However, should the Museum be opening a Japanese exhibit, a much-considered prospect, adds the old Knowledge angel, perhaps the Seraph might not mind giving a demonstration sometime?
Shateishael would be happy to. He will, if Forman seems interested, tell the professor the story of his searching for the best sword maker in the world, and finally finding this person in Japan... a man who was not interested in what he thought of as a big, pushy, clumsy gaijin for an apprentice! Slate continues, relating his simply hanging persistently around and patiently doing apprentice-level scutwork until the sword maker finally relented and decided he would teach him... and of his spending the next seventeen years (only seventeen, alas) learning sword making as the last apprentice of Masamune sensei. His disappointment at the death of the talented sword maker is alleviated by his pleasure at relating the wonderful chance meeting at War's Feasting Tables -- and Slate's ensuing realization that he had some swordwork to do!
It's rather obvious that Slate's grasp of bargaining is much more loose and easy-going than most have today. He has a more open-handed and generous attitude towards information sharing that bespeaks his long experience with mortals in a more barter-based system. He tells the story with little prompting, with obvious enjoyment, then curiously asks if Masamune sensei is still remembered? Does Professor Forman know, by any chance?
Miles, of course, is interested in damn near everything. That is his function. "It's not my field," he replies, "-but I could make inquiries with the University if you like."
Shateishael grins and nods, "Yes, sir, I'd greatly appreciate that. I always think it's a shame when folks are forgotten by recorded history."
Shateishael has one last thing he's been doing in Austin, just for the pleasure and prayer of it -- he's been systematically visiting, one at a time, all the stone buildings he can find that are also holy, and performing David's rite there. He almost immediately gets to the point where the essence generated bleeds off into the Symphony due to his being full up -- but that doesn't really bother him. He figures it helps the Symphony, however microscopically, and it pleases him to add (again, however microscopically) to his Superior's power on Earth.
Shateishael wishes to find all the holy places of Stone in Austin... and so, after he's found all the Christian churches, he happily wanders the city on foot, by motorcycle, and in celestial form. He gets better at memorizing the city in this fashion also, and can be easily found by those who recognize his methodical patterning and searching of the city as he wanders along, singing with quiet enjoyment to himself as he learns his community better, 'feeling' for more holy Stone places.
On his way through the North side, there is a church that is most certainly not on any of Slate's maps. Perhaps unsuprisingly; it's tiny, little more than a sturdy grey stone chapel with a few pews and an altar inside. But the building meets with the approval of a Stone Seraph; it's well-constructed, of obvious age, and shows sound calculation in its make. It nestles in between a large grocery store and a small house, perhaps a rectory.
Shateishael looks up in the church, pleased at the comfortable 'feel' he gets from this building. He wanders around it slowly, wondering why something this nice isn't on the maps. Once he's paced its perimeter once, running his hand along the stone wall, he heads in and settles comfortably in one of the back pews, to start David's rite.
The church has no sign, simply an old metal cross, dull with age, to proclaim it as a house of worship. Inside, as he takes his seat, the Seraph notices that one of the front pews is also occupied. There are two people there, though Slate can only see the backs of their heads; one small and dark-haired, the other a bit taller and dressed in what appears to be a monk's dull brown cassock. A small portion of their conversation intrudes upon Slate's meditation.
Shateishael huhs internally, with mild curiosity. Maybe that's why this church isn't on the map... it's really a monastery? The words drift past him, not really sought out, but not refused either. "...we all have doubts, my son. In this age, there are times when absolute certainty is impossible, and those times become greater in number with every day that passes. Even I must doubt, my son." "Even you?" "Yes, and every time that I must trust in my own judgement, I agonize over it. No one is truly infallible. That is why you must not allow your faith to falter."
Shateishael's quiet smile is hidden by his head being bowed in silent prayer... but it gives him pleasure to hear there are still good people in communities here -- good people that help others through their difficult life tests.
"I... I understand. I didn't know that such as you had doubts... but now that I do, at least I know not to count them as weakness." The monk laughs softly, tiredly, with a voice that carries with it the weariness of experience. "No, my son, not weakness... it is a check upon your judgement, so that you are never rash." "Yes... I see. Thank you. Thank you very much." "Of course. I will see you next week, my son." "Yes, of course." "God bless and keep you, my son."
With that, the monk rises and walks slowly down the aisle toward the door. As he passes the rear pews, Slate can see that the monk is actually very young, perhaps in his mid to late twenties, with black, curly hair. He nods once in passing, and exits the chapel. Shateishael knows how that feels... he's had inner doubts himself. He watches quietly, faintly surprised at the monk's apparent youth, and nods politely in return.
The other figure sits silently in the front pew for a few minutes more, looking up at the simple, unadorned cross above the altar. After a time, he rises and turns, picking up the hat that lies next to him, and begins to head down the aisle himself. At seeing the figure in the back pew, he stops, and murmurs, surprised, "Oh... it's you!" Shateishael looks up thoughtfully. Standing in the aisle... is the Judge that visits the Ranch every month.
Shateishael raises an amused eyebrow... and then realizes what he just witnessed, and the amusement drains quietly away. He tilts his head in slight confusion, "Judges... have doubts?" His tone isn't mocking or accusatory -- he's been praying for several hours today, and is in a rather peaceful and introspective mood. He's simply asking for understanding.
The Judge straightens up, wearing the same black suit he always wears, and absently runs a finger along the band of his hat. "Everyone doubts, Davidian. No one is infallible before God."
Shateishael thinks about that for a moment... then nods, "True. I'd never seen it in a Judge though." He pauses, considering that, then amends, "Well... I've not been around very many either, truth be told."
The Dominican says, "Even such as we are only given momentary insight into the eternal Truth. Eventually, we must all rely upon our own judgement." He adds, "Not many care for our company." His voice is neutral; just stating a fact.
Shateishael leans forward so his arms are resting on the back of the pew before him, and rests his chin on his hands. He nods, accepting the statement just as matter-of-factly, then says quietly, "It does seem sometimes that you try very hard to push any closeness away, however."
The Judge replies, "Some do. I can't blame them. We all dread the day that we must pass judgement on someone that we care about. If it can happen to the Most Just... it can happen to any of us."
Shateishael nods again -- a reasonable statement. He sighs softly, then rumbles quietly, "May I ask a... possibly difficult question?" He knows the angel before him has doubts sometimes... so he decides to give the little Judge a fair chance to not have a curious and not-very-friendly Stone angel possibly add to them.
The Dominican says, "If you wish."
Shateishael rumbles quietly, "What happens if your judgement is wrong? Can you bring back the unjustly slain?"
The Dominican says, "I cannot. That is God's domain, not mine. That is why we do everything within our power, and even then we pray, to see that our judgement is sound. You must know that Judgement defers always to the Superior, if death is at issue."
Shateishael frowns, then bluntly asks, "What if you can't find the Superior?"
The Judge says, "If death were at issue, we would give the accused the opportunity to request another to execute punishment. However... I know where you are leading me, and I'm glad. There is something I want to tell you."
Shateishael raises an eyebrow, then just waits. He's not sure how the Judge can consider it a good thing that there's no Superior to defer to if death is the Judgement... having someone else kill you sounds more like self-justification by the Judges, to Slate, than anything else.
The Judge takes a breath, then says, quietly, "What I say to you now, I say not as a Judge, but as one Seraph to another." He continues, "I know that you don't like me. Or my kind. And that is alright. Were I in your position I might well feel the same. But you are a Seraph and as such should know the Truth of the situation. Judgement does not seek evil for its own sake... nor does it hope to find it when it looks on its own. I go to Thessaloniki's ranch every month, notebook in hand, not because I, or anyone else, has any desire to see him stumble. I go because he is alone in the eyes of many, even though I can see that he is always looked after. I go, because there are many who wouldn't think twice of taking advantage of him. I go, because I will do all I can to see that never happens. I go... because it would darken my days more than I can say, to view that threshold and know he was not there. Because then I would have failed, and we would have lost a worthy soul for it."
He seats his hat on his head again. "That is all I wanted to say."
Shateishael silently watches the angel speak, his eyes dark and distant. A million questions jostle in his mind -- where is the justice in Judgement? Why is there no mercy? Why does Judgement persecute Gabriel, when she was but doing Yves' will? Why is there no care for the damage done by intrusive, unfriendly questioning? Why is Judgement's pet religion allowed abuses any angel would be instantly slain for even considering? -but he finally asks only one small question, "If that is so... why have you not trusted him with this information?"
The Judge takes another breath. "What I said to you, I said as one Seraph to another. When I speak to him... I am not permitted that liberty. I do not expect your understanding in this, but I thought that you deserved to know the Truth of things. And ultimately, it is irrelevant. I must do what I am made for, regardless of his knowledge of my motivations. I know that you dislike us. I hope that someday you will understand why we must operate this way. Until then, Davidian... God bless and keep you." He turns to go.
Shateishael tilts his head to watch the other Seraph as it leaves, faintly puzzled. He'd love to ask more questions, but a quiet internal voice warns him that would be unwise. He doesn't want or need attention focused on him as a dissident or rogue -- or whatever the accusation du jour is. Still... why would a Judge not be able to, in essence, encourage and possibly aid someone he's investigating -- that is innocent? That... makes no sense whatsoever to Slate. Considering that, he's not entirely sure he ever does want to understand the angels of Judgement, if it necessitates such a pitiless, heartless attitude. He likes having a heart -- even if it feels like it's breaking sometimes.
Shateishael sighs softly, a bit frustrated, and wonders if he'll ever find answers for the myriad questions about Judgement's style which he has tumbling around in his head... probably not, he thinks ruefully. He wonders who the monk was. He can't imagine an angel of Judgement giving a shit about a human's thoughts... just about whether or not there's evil present. It hits him a second later, like a cold fist to the gut -- it's Sunday... Sunday afternoon. His head comes up in sudden alertness, Holy shit, was that little monk Dominic?!
Shateishael shudders and sits back, feeling chilled and still looking towards the door. He's abruptly lost any desire to return to this little church... he's not sure what he finds more terrifying: a Judgement that is working fanatically hard to kill or destroy all those that disagree with it -- or a Judgement that has doubts... but does it anyway.
Shateishael sighs, rubbing one hand roughly across his face... he really shouldn't hang around Judgement angels at all. He's considered the issues so much, and has so many questions, that there's doubtless something they could pin on him.
Shateishael waits quietly until the little church is empty, not wanting to attract undue attention to himself. He waits a moment past that, making sure no one else alarming is going to come walking in and nearly give him a corporeal heart attack. Then he sighs, trying to roll some of the tension out of his shoulders, and goes back to performing David's rite. An hour should help him settle his inner turmoil -- the Judges are so unfair! and any questioning of them is considered guilt! -- he hammers that thought down ruthlessly, and finishes his previous thought... he needs to settle his inner turmoil, and an hour will... give the area time to clear. He has no desire to be around any of Judgement's people. He knows his own propensity for blurting things out... and he won't cause possible embarrassment to David when it'd be so easy to avoid.
Shateishael finishes the rite finally, and rises, pacing quietly out of the church to stand on the front steps and look around warily. No crazy Judges loitering around, good... he sighs again, shaking his head once, and heads down to his bike.
A few weeks pass in relative quiet. Nothing really interesting happens, until one morning when Tomas calls Rosenstern over from his morning chores to gesture at the paper. "Have you read this, Rosenstern?"
Rosenstern blinks, looking over to Tomas in surprise. He meanders over, the broom tapping lightly against his shoulder. "This morning's paper? No, not yet. What's up?"
Tomas grins. "Some crazy in Lubbock took a shot at a Catholic minister over in Lubbock." He holds up the article for the Novalite; the attacker was quoted as he fled the scene, For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the Sword in vain, for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that is evil. The attacker was described as a tall man in a dark gray overcoat and long black hair.
Tomas smiles, "Hell of a world we live in, isn't it?"
It is the morning of Rosenstern's uncomfortable revelation. The Ranch is mostly empty this unseasonably cool morning, the transient visitors all having long departed on their own angelic errands and the Novalite himself in town, working. It's quiet, for a change.
Taygeta is scattered around several Vessels, but his primary concentration is on a cat sitting at a computer screen. Since Rei got him interested, he's been spending time watching the Internet. Shateishael is enjoying the early morning cool as he chops wood. It's a peaceful, mentally undemanding physical activity, and it helps Nick... works for him. Thessaloniki has spent all night out in the garage, sanding on a funny looking little sedan. In a few more days, it will be... perfect. Nick has all the time in the world, so he settles for nothing less.
Nick, still working in the garage, hears a peculiar blurb on the radio as the music is interrupted for the requisite news, station identification, and obtusely marketed personal hygiene products. "A Catholic priest in Lubbock, Texas, the target of a sniper attack yesterday, has made the statement that he will be giving his regular Sunday sermon this week despite the continued threat of the unknown gunman, who remains at large. When asked about the possible significance of the attacker's quoting of Scripture during the assault, Father Meade had this to say: 'It's truly a sin and a sad thing when some people take it upon themselves to subvert religion to their own purposes.' Father Meade is in line to be promoted to Bishop at the end of this month. For WHVN News, this is Kara Silver."
Shateishael finishes the wood available, then stacks it neatly and puts his tools away. After cleaning up he wanders over to the garage... just in time to hear the blurb. Taygeta-sparrow has been poking around for seeds and bugs near the garage, and hears the radio squib as well. He joins the others to see what they think. Slate looks up at the radio, then at Nick, as he slides carefully onto something he knows can support him and isn't of immediate need to the Ofanite. "Huh... wonder why the local angels let some demon get that close to a Catholic priest." He settles cross-legged and watches Nick with a faint smile.
Thessaloniki looks up from the car he's sanding with a long, narrow sander, and listens to the radio. When the announcement finishes, he leans back on the old milk box he's sitting on and says through his dust mask, "I dunno, Slate. Very strange indeed."
Shateishael nods, "Far as I recall, Lubbock's far enough away from here that it's definitely not Truce territory."
Thessaloniki nods, "Well outside. Very odd indeed. Wonder if it's anybody we know?"
Shateishael shrugs, "Who, the priest? Nah, not me. I stay away from all the sects of Christianity... don't need any Swordies or Judgelets glaring at me for not being respectful enough of their pet religion." He snorts quietly, turning his head to spit out the door once, then turns to continue watching the Ofanite. A moment later he blinks, "Hey, that reminds me. Got a minute, Nick? Got a story for you."
Thessaloniki says, "Sure, Slate."
Shateishael nods, and relates the curious conversation he had with the Judgement seraph in the church. He adds, "Dunno exactly what the guy expected... did he tell me because he wanted you to know, or what?" He frowns, adding, "Rather deceptive of him, if so." He rolls his shoulders irritably, then growls, "Got real problems with someone that talks the talk but won't walk the walk."
Thessaloniki nods and says, "Oh, I suspected something like that." He adds, "Cut him a little slack, Slate. Any angel that falls, he, or someone he knows, will be feeling responsible, wondering, 'What did I miss?' And would you be comfortable making the decision to keep someone away from the bliss of Heaven?" He shrugs and adds, "We each have our burdens to bear. His are unpleasant, and I don't envy him them."
Shateishael hmfs softly, then rumbles quietly, "Slack, Nick? Judge's folks push everyone else away, then wonder why they're so alone. Sounds like it's them that needs to be cutting themselves some slack... not me." He glances around to be sure the usual little Judgement seraph isn't around, then quietly continues, "And if anyone asks what they're up to -- they slap 'em down for heresy. Sounds like a guilty conscience to me... but I'm not stupid enough to be open with one while it's around."
Thessaloniki says, "The last thing they can afford to do, Slate, is to trust. If they did, then anybody on the verge of Falling would just lie to them. Yes, they're a little unpleasant, but they do do an important job. Don't write them off because of who they are." He picks up his sander, and adds, "Oddly, that's one of the things Eli mentioned to me last time I saw him. If he isn't upset by them, why should you or I be?"
Shateishael bares his teeth in a grin at Nick, his eyes glittering with amusement, "'Cause I don't like folks bothering my friends is why."
Thessaloniki smiles and says, "Your loyalty, Slate, does you credit."
Shateishael chuckles quietly, "Loyalty, my old friend, is Stone's middle name."
Thessaloniki nods, and says, "You do David proud, Slate." and returns to his careful and methodical sanding. Shateishael just sits for a while, enjoying the moment and quietly pleased. Taygeta-sparrow chirps agreement before returning to his search for insects.
Taygeta shifts more of his attention to the vicinity of the MediLab. The blocky buildings shine in the morning light, and one of his bird vessels flits down next to a window, watching for a chance to transfer to a human vessel. The building is marked with a stylized 'ML,' and the legend 'MediLabs LLC.' A tallish, mid-to-low-rent student type is making his way up the sidewalk toward the building. Taygeta chirps and lands on the sidewalk in front of the fellow, then tries to transfer to him.
The Kyriotate notices immediately that the human has something in his pocket. Taygeta takes a moment to check the fellow's wallet and ID, and anything else of interest in his pockets. A folded piece of paper, what looks to be a flyer. MAKE $200 FOR A WEEKEND OF BLOOD DRAWS! It's a flyer for MediLabs. Apparently this particular vehicle is looking to make some extra cash. Taygeta frowns at the flyer. Now doesn't that sound just like something Vapula's crowd would be doing? Oh, well. Gotta check it out. He puts the flyer back in his pocket and opens the door.
The MediLabs foyer is a pleasantly lit, cream-colored space, with some waiting space and a large hemispherical desk. A pretty, young receptionist with large, dark eyes looks up from her terminal and inquires, "Welcome to MediLabs. Your Body Is Our Asset![TM] How can I help you today?"
Taygeta pulls the flyer out. "I was hoping to get into this program. Do I sign up here?"
The receptionist smiles again and says, "Go right inside, sir, and follow the blue line." She touches a key on her desk and the large steel security door set into the back wall buzzes. "You can go right in." Taygeta nods and follows the line through the door and down the hall beyond.
The MediLabs complex, on the inside, is a honeycomb of corridors and offices, behind heavy fake-wood doors with surgical steel handles. The carpet is thin and gray, the lighting harsh fluorescent, and the entire place smells of recycled air and carpet shampoo. The blue line turns out to be a cleverly concealed luminescent strip that seems to be part of the carpet itself. The way is relatively straightforward for the Kyriotate, but it's easy to see where a mortal might become quickly disoriented. The only people that Taygeta passes are PAs, or physicians' assistants, in scrubs of varying drab colors, or plainclothes office workers at their stations. He arrives finally at a smaller waiting area staffed by a thickset woman who hands him a clipboard filled to capacity with paperwork. "You'll need to just fill all these out, please. Have a seat, and take your time."
Taygeta works his way through the paperwork, filling in some of it easily (an eidetic memory comes in handy) and winging the rest of it. The paperwork is abysmally dreary and onerous. Some forms come out in triplicate, and many of the questions are often redundant, to say nothing of invasive and uncomfortable, particularly the ten-point venereal disease checklist. The psychological questionnaire stops just shy of being accusatory, while the insurance forms at the back are, quite simply, obscene.
Taygeta works his way through the physical portions of the questionnaire, making things up as he goes for the most part, though he doesn't put down a blood type. When he gets to the psychological portion, he looks up. "What kind of study is this? Why so many head-shrink questions?"
The receptionist doesn't even look up. "Standard insurance questions," is the reply.
Taygeta shrugs and goes back to answering questions. Obnoxious sort of thing. I bet one of the Media's gang had a hand in this. Finally he finishes it all. And a good thing I'm not a Seraph. Slate'd never have been able to lie his way through this thing. "Okay, I think that's it, ma'am. Now what?"
The receptionist looks over the pages of the form. Finally she frowns and says, "You missed a line here. What's your blood type, dear?"
Taygeta looks embarrassed. "Umm.. I dunno, ma'am. Never gave blood before."
The receptionist's expression hovers somewhere between incredulity and simple annoyance. "Well," she says after a long, long pause, "-we'll get you all fixed up now, then." She scribbles something on the forms, then hands Taygeta a pink slip of paper covered in illegible, fast-scrawled letters. "Through this door here, down the hall, first door on the left, the phlebotomist will see you right away, then you can go on in for the study."
Taygeta takes the paper. "Okay, thanks." He wanders off down the hall.
This hallway is papered in a weird, light pink color with a barely perceptible pattern that reminds one uncomfortably, in one's peripheral vision, of flesh and movement. The first door on the left leads into a small, brightly-lit laboratory. There's a chair next to a small table, on which lies a truly impressive array of hardware; needles of every gauge and make imaginable. This lovely bit of real estate is presided over by a very pretty woman in her thirties, wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat with a small laminate card attached. It has only her picture, a barcode, and the word 'Phlebotomist' on display. Taygeta knocks on the door. "Excuse me? The lady at the desk said you'd check my blood type?"
The Phlebotomist smiles and says, "Oh, sure thing. Just need to hand over that form there..." Taking the pink slip, she files it away on one of the counters, saying, "Hop up on the chair there, and we'll get you all taken care of."
Taygeta complies, looking nervously at all the needles. "They don't use all of those in the study, do they?"
The Phlebotomist smiles again as she effortlessly selects a needle. It occurs to Taygeta that she might be smiling at it, and not him. "Not all at once," she grins. Whether or not that's a joke isn't exactly clear. She taps a vein with practiced ease.
Taygeta says, "What's it about, anyway?"
The Phlebotomist fills a vial with the blood she collects, and shakes it slightly, holding it up to the light as she presses a small wad of gauze to the puncture wound. "Oh, we're just taking a study," she says, before breezing across to a large wall unit and dropping the vial into a slot. There's some whirring and humming, and a few long moments of silence before she turns, still smiling, and reports, "Well, aren't you lucky! Type O, universal donor. We could use more of you in here."
Taygeta looks puzzled. "It's gotta be a study of something, doesn't it?"
The Phlebotomist shrugs, saying, "I'm not privy to it myself. I just work here!" She grins, "I've already forwarded the information to the people that do the bookkeeping, so go on back to the receptionist and she'll send you on your way."
Taygeta says, "Okay. Thanks!" He heads back out to the desk. "Type O, she said. Where next?"
The receptionist directs Taygeta to follow the red line. This line winks to life and leads the angel through another security door at the end of a singularly long and claustrophobic hallway. The walls are very close, and the ceiling low. The air is warm and heavy, and the smell of carpet cleaner especially thick. There are no windows at all in this corridor. Beyond the security door at the end is a small series of rooms: a tiny living area with a pair of couches and a large television, a sleeping area with a set of bunks in each wall, and a small kitchen/lab area. There are three or four student types here, including one rather harried-looking young lady with dark hair who is staring with a mixture of squeamishness and outright terror at the needle with which a PA is taking a blood draw. She looks absolutely bloodless until the needle is withdrawn. To complete the picture, the PA, whose size would indicate a greater than average concentration of testosterone, appears to be attempting to chat her up while he works. The only immediately noticeable aspect of the suite, besides its perfectly neutral gray/white color, is the long mirror that dominates half of one wall of the central TV area.
Taygeta takes a look around and then sits down next to the others, near the mirror. He surreptitiously peers into it, wondering if it's two-way glass. The glass looks as if it might be two-way, though it's inconclusive; there are murky shapes and movement if one strains one's eyes very hard.
Two young men, one Caucasian and the other with long, straight, dark hair and honey-toned skin, are busily extracting a video game console from a duffel bag and going about connecting it to the television. The Caucasian guy is grinning as Tay sits down, whipping out a Leatherman tool with a flick of the wrist and saying, "...got it covered, bro." His friend nods, smiling as he flips through a wallet of discs, then groans, doubling over. "Oh, shit..." His friend looks up, concerned, then frowns, "Oh, man. Again?" The dark-skinned young man stands and hustles into a small door in the kitchen/lab, apparently the bathroom. The companion just sighs, shaking his head, and goes back to work. The PA has finished with the girl, apparently not getting anywhere, and withdraws. The girl mms quietly, holding the gauze to her arm, and plunks down on the other couch while the young man behind the TV works.
Taygeta shifts to watch the video game installer work. "Your friend having trouble with his stomach? When did that start?"
The kid behind the TV straightens, having gotten the RF adapter properly secured, and folds up his Leatherman. "This morning. I dunno what they gave him but he's had these fuckin' diabolical trots since we got here. We're in the same study, and I haven't felt a thing all morning. I think he's allergic or... something." He sighs, shoulders sagging a bit. "Poor guy. Not really worth two bills, if you ask me."
Taygeta-human winces. "Oh, man. Hope he's getting enough liquids... that can really dehydrate you if you're not careful. So they give you something and check your blood all weekend? The dragon-lady at the front desk wouldn't say a thing." Taygeta-cat, miles away, is typing up his immediate impressions for JeanNet. The MediLab complex seems to have been infiltrated by the Infernals long since. I am currently investigating in a vessel I borrowed on his way into the building -- it shows all the signs of being a site of one of Vapula's more... biologically oriented endeavors.
The kid says, "The study? We're not allowed to know, I don't think. They had us swallow a couple of pills this morning, and they come by every half-hour and spike you." He plunks down on the floor, leaning against the girl's legs as he starts a game disc playing. He looks up at her, "How you holding up?" She shrugs and touches his shoulder, watching the game instead.
The other young man comes out of the bathroom after a few moments, pausing to take a deep drink from the sink in the kitchen, then sigh with relief. He enters and sits down on the end of Taygeta's couch. "Hey. Nice to meet you," he says.
Taygeta nods and smiles at the fellow. "Hey, man. You look like you came prepared for boredom. You done these things before?"
The dark-skinned man nods, grinning a little wanly under the circumstances, "Yeah. We do these a few times a year for the extra cash... these guys just opened and nobody else offers that much money for just two days; thought we'd give it a try."
The young man on the floor mutters, "Not that I haven't had second thoughts this weekend."
Taygeta says, "This is my first time... just saw the flyer yesterday. Don't they usually tell you what the study's about?"
The dark-skinned young man says, "Usually they give you some standard information. I think the last one I did was for a generic version of Claritin." The girl murmurs in reply, "They said it was some kind of double-blind study, so the people watching us don't even know what's going on. I don't think I buy that, but whatever. I know I'm not coming back here again."
Her friend on the floor says, "Damn skippy."
Taygeta says, "Great. Oh, well... I need the cash. I hope I don't react like you did. Anyway. I'm Derek. Who are all of you?"
The dark-skinned man says, "Um, I'm Dan, and this is Jake," indicating the young man on the floor, who nods, "Yo. Pleased to meetcha." "And that's Kyra." Kyra just smiles weakly and rubs her upper arms. "Hi." It's about that time that another burly PA comes in with pills for Taygeta, and syringes for his new friends... it promises to be a long day.
The Fourth Street Coffee Shop, yet again. It's a bit rainy and cold today, but it always seems to be just a little on the warm side of comfort in this place. The hipsters are here in force today, taking shelter from the weather. Laird is savagely making coffee at people. Niko is also here in his corner, watching people on the street, and Marlena, as usual, is perched in her booth with a mochaccino and her PDA.
Thessaloniki parks outside with ease and flair. If any of the hipsters are looking or know cars, the DeLorean might attract their attention; it's steel-colored and wedge shaped. The slightly older gentleman getting out of it probably wouldn't, unless to wonder what a square like this is doing there, dressed in shirt, string tie, dark gray pants, boring shoes, and loud Native-American-patterned cardigan. He gets out of the car, closing its odd door, and heads into the shop, smiling cheerfully. He gets in the drinks line, then glances over to see if Marlena has noticed his arrival.
Some of the hipsters grin and comment quietly to themselves. One of them scratches in his notebook suddenly, as if inspired by the arrival of the agent of Creation in his midst. Marlena seems pretty busy with her PDA, quirking her lips to one side, then the other. The effect is rather cuter than one would expect of a force of darkness.
Thessaloniki smiles cheerfully at Marlena, and then crisply and smoothly orders a double grande non-fat iced caramel latte. He watches Laird -- whatever he may be -- expertly and quickly produce the drink, pays the fellow, smiles, says, "Thank you!" and walks over to Marlena, "Hello, Marlena. May I join you for a few minutes, or would I be interrupting your important work?"
Laird... actually speaks. And what comes out of his mouth is, "Welcome, Nick." He moves on to the next customer before anyone notices. Marlena looks up and smiles, "Why Nick! What a pleasant surprise! Please sit down."
Thessaloniki smiles and sets his iced drink down, then sits himself. He says, "I'm always happy to stop by and say hello to such a lovely woman, especially if I can interrupt her work."
Marlena grins, "I hardly consider you an interruption, Nicky. What brings you into town? Surely you're not just here to see me."
Thessaloniki says, "Well, I don't know that I'd leap to a conclusion like that if I were you. It's hardly as if I mind the drive, especially if it rains."
Marlena smiles, "Flatterer. So do you enjoy the rain? I didn't think a car buff like you would be fond of wet roads."
Thessaloniki sips his drink while she's talking, and chuckles in reply, saying, "Oh, wet roads are fun to drive on! The rain adds such a lovely little thrill, and requires so much more skill to handle the car correctly. And it keeps many others off the roads." He asks, "Do you like the rain?"
Marlena mms, thinking about that a moment. She looks through the glass at the people passing on the street. "I suppose. I prefer it when I'm inside and it's out, I think... the sound is lovely, but cold and wet I can do without."
Thessaloniki grins, "Cold and wet are drawbacks. But inside, you miss the wonderful smell that you get just before and just after it rains. Of course... then it's not raining, and you're not getting wet."
Marlena grins, sipping her drink. "You'll have to educate me on the fine timing some evening."
Thessaloniki smiles, "I would be pleased to. I was also wondering if you would like to join me at the Austin Symphony some evening?"
Marlena blinks. "The... symphony?" Then she grins widely and maybe, just maybe, blushes a little. "Why, Nick, what's the occasion?"
Thessaloniki sips from his drink, then says, "Honestly, I just thought it was something you might enjoy doing, and not have done in a while. I didn't realize I needed an occasion to share an evening of music with a witty and attractive woman."
Marlena smiles a little as she says, "You just wear that body for show, don't you. You're smoother than you let yourself appear."
Thessaloniki chuckles and says, "There are often advantages to seeming a little older, a little harmless. If you're curious, my friend Slate, the blonde and impressive fellow, is about twice my age, and has seen many more things." He sips his drink, then adds, "Don't tell me you don't understand what your body shows, either, mmm?" His grin turns mischievous.
Marlena grins, arching an eyebrow, "Why, no, Nick... what is my body telling you?"
Thessaloniki chuckles and says, "Nothing I could explain here, I suspect. Along with your charm, grace, and wit, your form certainly helped convince me to drive out and risk appearing the fool." He sips his drink and adds, "Perhaps I could try again, at dinner after the symphony?"
Marlena grins broadly, "You're welcome to look the fool anytime you like, Nick. Dinner would be lovely."
Thessaloniki beams quietly for a moment, then says, "It's often worth the risk, yes. What kind of food do you like? Fancy? Informal? Italian? Chinese? French? Mongolian grill?"
Marlena says, "Chinese, my dear, would be just fine with me."
Thessaloniki smiles, "Lovely." He checks the date and time with her, making sure she's free, and then asks, "Shall I pick you up, say, forty-five minutes before?"
Marlena smiles and writes her address down on the back of a business card. "I'll be waiting," she says.
Thessaloniki smiles, "I shall be looking forward to it." He sips his coffee and smirks, adding, "Wonder what your roomie will make of that, mmm?"
Marlena grins crookedly. "That is entirely his business and none of my concern."
Thessaloniki says, "True. I, however, feel no compunction whatsoever against confusing him as much as possible."
Marlena smiles. "Powers is more cagey than you might think, Nicky. But I expect he'll be on his best behavior. If he's not," she adds with a feral grin, "-I'll eat his liver."
Thessaloniki sips his slightly-odd-for-a-cool-day drink and says, "I don't doubt you for a moment, Marlena." He sips again and adds, "About either part."
Marlena mmms. "You know me too well, my dear."
Thessaloniki says, "Not yet. But it might be fun to find out," as he grins again.
Marlena laughs, "You're terrible, Nick."
A few streets away Slate is with the Angel of Catchy Tunes, walking for once and on a debatably bad night. Tomas is wrapped in a chic black raincoat, his longish, wavy hair plastered back against his head from the spray as he walks alongside the monolithic Stone Seraph. Shateishael looks around thoughtfully as he paces silently along, his hands tucked into the pockets of his damply gleaming, black leather jacket, and wonders why Tomas wanted to go out in such messy weather. When he looks back at the soggy Eliite, he can't resist a grin, "Dude... you look less than perfect. Can this be?!"
Tomas grins, still looking ahead at the thin, oncoming traffic as it passes. "We all have to make sacrifices." He brushes back his hair with one hand and says, "Actually, speaking of which... this is about Drew." Shateishael grins quietly to himself, then nods at Tomas' last comment, listening with interest. Tomas says, "I talked over your idea with Drew. He seemed to really like the idea." He glances up at the Seraph, "That should come as good news."
Shateishael grins broadly, "Great." He walks silently for several more steps, then adds cheerfully, "Really great!" He adds happily, "Thanks, Tomas, for doing this."
Tomas nods. "My pleasure. Anything to keep the kid from more Discord." There's a long pause before he adds, shaking his head, "Jesus." He continues, straightening up, "But... he said that he'd have to take care of one last thing before he made the change, one more stab at the old method before he embraced a new Role."
Shateishael looks curious, "New role? What's he mean by that?"
Tomas says, "Well, the only problem is that, as he is right now... his Vessel is too young-looking to actually play most venues. That's kind of a hitch for someone that doesn't age... or at least, not on the human scale. I'm not exactly sure what he's planning to do, but... he asked me and Wrench to meet him on Fourth Street, and I thought you might want to come along too, since you've befriended him as well. And it just makes me feel better to have two heavily capable people on the scene when I know something weird might go down."
Shateishael says, "Oh, sure, no sweat, Tomas. Hey, if he needs help looking older, maybe he could ask Nick to help him?" He pauses, then says with slow wariness, "Tomas... Drew wouldn't do something... stupid, like get his vessel killed for his Word, would he?"
Tomas nods. "Yeah... that's what I'm afraid of, too. It's not like it'd be much danger to him, but I'm a little worried what he might do to the mortals in the vicinity if he does."
Shateishael nods again, looking a bit grim, "Gotcha. What time we looking to meet him?"
Tomas says, "Right now." As he comes to a stop at a street corner, in fact the very corner that the Fourth Street Coffee Shop sits on, the angels can spy Wrenchial standing on the opposite corner, looking more red than usual against the dark blue-gray of the rainy city evening. Tomas gives him an arms-spread 'What's up?' gesture; the big Calabite shrugs.
Shateishael looks around warily again, brushing his wet bangs out of his eyes, then grins slightly, noticing a certain perfect and familiar DeLorean in the parking lot behind the cafe. He rumbles quietly to the Mercurian, "Nick's at the coffee shop if we can keep Drew from doing anything terminal, Tomas." He nods to the Calabite, then continues searching visually for Drew.
Tomas nods, "That's probably a good thing." The light changes, and Wrench begins to walk across the street; strange that the Calabite chooses to obey the traffic laws. He looks up about halfway across the street, looking down the street to the left, and as he gets closer his lips can be seen to form the words, "Oh, shit." The familiar whine of a bike engine, followed close by that of a car, grow louder over the sound of thin traffic.
Shateishael frowns, muttering, "Stay on the sidewalk, Tomas," as he's moving swiftly out to be near the Calabite. It doesn't occur to him at this moment, although it will later, to be astonished that he moved instantly to help a demon.
A car-full of teenagers is going much, much faster than is probably safe, and the odds are they don't have the benefit of an Ofanite (or even a Calabite) behind the wheel. The noise the kids inside are making can be head even over the car. And at their head, like their vanguard straight out of a comic book, is Druiel, almost flying on his motorcycle.
Tomas murmurs, "Oh... no." Shateishael looks around almost wildly, upset beyond belief that Drew is willing to sacrifice a carload of innocents. No people in the walkways to get struck -- yet, at least -- the sidewalks are empty, it's a three-way intersection... and all that faces that road is... a solid brick wall.
Wrench jumps onto the curb. "Tomas! He's gonna-!" But the Calabite doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence. The car and bike take the turn far, far too hard and the car fishtails, spinning through 180 degrees before screeching to a halt in a cloud of spray. Drew's bike, however, is not so stable. Catching a puddle beneath its tires, the bike flips end over end, Drew with it, until it meets the wall. It only takes a second, and then the smoke is covering the intersection.
Shateishael glances at the car -- looks fine -- as he runs through the smoke, heading for the brick wall. He's tremendously relieved the car wasn't sacrificed for Drew's Word. Belatedly, it occurs to him -- should he be trying to help Drew's vessel survive or not? He shoves that thought aside for later. For now, training says to go to the aid of the wounded.
Tomas stands there with his mouth open for a moment. "D... Dr... Jesus!" He runs toward the coffee shop. Wrench is already up and moving, having started his run almost before the bike struck the wall... he dives into the smoke, heedless of the fire. The broad, black AVAIL patch on his back serves as a beacon for the Seraph through the smoke. Wrench is bellowing in the smoke, absurdly enough looking at home in the blaze. "Drew! God damn it!"
Thessaloniki looks out the window, from inside the shop, at the screech of tires, so sees the bike do its airborne acrobatics. He also sees Slate, and knows things will be in hand. He says to Marlena, "Never dull around here, is it? If you'll excuse me, I think I should go find out what my friend and associates have done." He adds, "Oh, look, there's Wrench. A regular party."
Marlena mmms, "He does bring the party with him, doesn't he."
The bike is completely destroyed. It's also on fire, although the blaze seems to have spread a bit along with the ruptured fuel tank. Wrench also is on fire, but he doesn't seem bothered at the moment. He hacks a bit, "Gnnnrrrh, this is no good, Slate!"
Shateishael has one arm up to protect his face as much as he can. He coughs also, then grates, "Can you put the fire out so we can see?" as he keeps searching for the body. He adds almost absently, "Put yourself out too, dude, before the mortals notice..."
In the coffee shop, Thessaloniki stands and heads out, commenting, "The coffee was perfect as usual, Laird. Thank you!" as he goes. He runs to his DeLorean and pops the trunk (which is in the front) and finds his first aid kit. He also pulls out his fire extinguisher. He trots over to the fire and says to Slate's comment, "My extinguisher will. Get clear, Wrench."
Shateishael nods, stepping aside for Nick and gently taking the first aid kit out from under Nick's arm, so he doesn't disturb the Ofanite. Wrench growls something unintelligible and staggers out of the cloud. Shateishael looks around a bit puzzledly. Are there any wet foot prints out of the cloud of smoke, aside from their own? Where's Drew? He crouches, trying to see under the smoke if there's a body lying there. Thessaloniki blasts the base of the flames with smooth washes of white spray from the extinguisher, seeking the middle of the flames.
The carload of kids has emptied itself, as has part of the coffee shop. Sirens can be heard approaching. Wrench circles around from the side, his legs and back still ablaze, risen from the smoke. From his hand is dangling the badly scorched and blasted leather jacket that Drew had worn, the silver tape peeled and falling off from the heat. He looks at Slate, then Tomas, then Nick, for once in his life without something to say. After a long silence he finally mutters, "Nick.... gimme a hit of that, please."
Thessaloniki casually puts Wrench out before the mortals get any more weirded out. Shateishael snarls wordlessly in frustration at sight of the jacket, then turns away angrily. "Damn kid!"
Thessaloniki continues to try and put the fire out, until it's gone or his extinguisher runs out -- the latter being more likely. He then steps back and says, "Hope it was worth it, Drew." He shakes his head, adding quietly, "You fool."
Wrench says, "Thanks, bro." He hands Drew's jacket to Tomas, who just stares at the wreckage, blinking. Wrenchial doesn't say anything right away... but he folds his arms, face darkening. The pavement cracks faintly under his boots. "God dammit. What the fuck was that for?! Goddamn showoff!"
Shateishael sighs, then rumbles quietly, "Changing his Role is my guess. Wanted an older vessel."
Wrench snarls. "Fucking kid." Thessaloniki doesn't contradict Wrench, not a bit. For a demon, Wrench has his head screwed on pretty straight, it seems.
Shateishael studies the watching kids from the car... just staring silently, cold-eyed, at them. Thessaloniki puts the empty extinguisher down and looks at the gathering crowd, "Maybe we should try and talk to the kids in the car and see if we can either shed some light or confusion on what they saw, mmm?"
Shateishael nods silently, still staring at the kids, then rumbles quietly, "You talk, Nicky... I'm likely to snap at 'em." He's still holding the metal first aid kit very tightly, trying to rein in his anger. He's not denting it... much...
Thessaloniki sighs and says, "Tomas, you might be better. Or maybe Trent. They'll think I'm their father, lecturing them." He adds, "I don't know what I'd say."
The kids are all just standing in the intersection. Some of them are staring at the wreckage, while a few are trying to approach Tomas, who's still holding Drew's jacket. Tomas shakes his head to clear it, and nods, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll talk to them. Trent's coming... I just called."
Shateishael takes a deep breath, then bellows in a sudden flare of fury at the watching kids, "What were you thinking?!"
Tomas looks up at that, and murmurs, "Or... maybe I won't." The kids all jump back at the sudden shout, and one of them almost tries to break for it, but the restraint of one of his comrades, and the sound of approaching sirens, keeps him.
Shateishael takes another breath... then just turns and stalks into the coffee shop before he says something he'll regret later. There's a muttered, "Sorry," from over his shoulder as he leaves. Thessaloniki picks up his extinguisher and walks wordlessly back over to his car, putting it away and closing the trunk. He then walks to the scared kids, calling, "Hey, kids? Are you guys okay?" The kids, at Nick's query, all start talking at once, explaining, apologizing, asking about Drew... the example made of him having apparently finally stuck home.
In the coffee shop, Shateishael growls quietly to Laird, "Coffees, please. Black." He nods politely, if tightly, at Marlena, then just continues to stare darkly out the window.
Wrench clenches his jaw a bit. "That... was my friend. God damn it." The Calabite stalks toward a nearby stoop and sits down on it, already knowing he's going to have to make a statement. Inside the shop Laird nods and provides extremely fast black coffee. He looks out the window silently, watching the smoke clear. Finally he murmurs, "So much for the evening rush."
Shateishael mutters thanks to Laird, collecting several cups and paying with careful, tight movements, then heads back out to dispense coffee to those that want it, himself included. He carefully stays away from the kids -- he's still enormously peeved. Instead he sits on the opposite end of the stoop from Wrench, silently pushing the second-to-last cup of coffee over within the Calabite's reach, then sits and sips his own, thinking. Must be someone Upstairs he can have check and see Drew's safely there, even if in Trauma...
Wrench takes the coffee as Trent's cruiser pulls up, along with an ambulance. Trent looks visibly startled that another Sword Angel would destroy himself that way, but he throws himself into his job with stoic efficiency. As Wrench takes the cup from the big Seraph, he growls, a low bass sound, and says, "He's gonna come back, you know. And then," he says, "I'm gonna kick the shit out of him."
Shateishael nods as he sips the steaming coffee... then grins in spite of himself. A moment later he casually rumbles, "Leave some for me, eh?"
Thessaloniki lets the kids run down, and thinks while they're talking. When he does talk, he says, "The guy on the bike is dead. If the impact didn't kill him, the fire did. Life is no game." He looks over at the smoking wreck, then the two large, stunned celestials, and then back at the kids, and adds, "Don't forget. And tell your friends. Be careful." Shateishael smiles slowly to himself, starting to feel a bit better. Nick's nicer than he is -- carefully reminding the kids of Drew's Word like that... and Drew may not realize it, but the little Sword angel's damn lucky to have the friends he has.
Wrench gulps down the coffee, his large frame still giving off comical wisps of smoke as the denim smolders down. "Yeah, don't you worry. I gotta hold him while Tomas gets one in too." He growls again. "Fuckin' mortals. Look at 'em. They finally listen to him after he blows himself to nothin'. Useless."
Shateishael nods slowly at Wrench's words, then murmurs, "You'd figure they'd be more careful with their lives, not having any extras to hand... never quite understood that, myself..."
Thessaloniki says, "In a few minutes the police are going to be here, and they'll be asking you some hard questions. I suggest you tell the truth. It's easier." He sighs, glances over at Tomas, and says to the kids, "And if you think that's no fun, the questions the others will get asked are a lot less fun -- namely, next of kin, who'll collect the body, and all sorts of other things." When none of the kids speak up, he adds, "I'm glad you're all right. It could have been worse; it could have been all of you." He repeats, "Be careful."
Trent doesn't say much when he arrives, simply letting Nick's words sink in as he begins to gather up the kids and herd them out of the intersection. Once Trent has the kids' attention, Nick wanders over to Slate and Wrench, murmuring, "Fucking stupid stunt." He sighs and wishes he had more coffee, adding, "I hope I helped it not be a complete waste." Shateishael grins up at Nick from where he sits and hands him the cup of coffee he'd saved him.
Wrench growls. "No use at all. Goddamn dense, every one of 'em. An' Drew makes an example of himself for 'em. I don't understand angels, man."
Shateishael grins, the small styrofoam cup resting against his teeth for a moment as he glances sideways at the demon, "S'okay, dude... feeling's mutual, I think."
Thessaloniki smiles, then takes the cup from Slate and drinks it, all at once. He then says quietly, "Wrench, that's not 'angels.' That's 'Drew being a melodramatic idiot.' Don't assume we're all fools." Shateishael's grin widens slightly, but he doesn't say anything. Thessaloniki murmurs, "Any chance he went celestial at the last moment?"
Shateishael shakes his head at Nick, "Didn't 'hear' it. Sorry."
Wrench just growls again, a soggy Balrog on the ruined stoop. "I'm gonna have to have Tomas explain this to me. Yeah. 'Cause I know for damn sure Drew ain't gonna be able to do it." He sits back, folding his arms, and waits for the police to come take his statement.
Shateishael laughs, soft and low, and rumbles quietly, "Like to hear that one myself."
Thessaloniki sighs, "Fool. He could have made the same point without the theatrics. I wish he'd talk to people before he does this stupid shit." He looks back at Trent, then leans against the railing on the side away from Wrench, looking around contemplatively. He winds up looking at Marlena in the coffee shop. If she's looking, he'll smile briefly. Shateishael pauses, looking around at the coffee shop, as it finally sinks in -- Nick was in the shop earlier, and Marlena was there a moment ago? He grins again to himself, glancing back at Nick and noticing the smile... Nick's so cute when he's courting. He wonders if Marlena's sighted Lauren yet.
Tomas walks up, taking shelter on the stoop next to Wrench, and sighs. "Well... there you have it. The last refrain, I hope. Actually, I hope when he comes back I don't kill him again." The Mercurian shakes his head. "I'm getting too old for this." Shateishael nods to Tomas silently.
Thessaloniki says, "There's a queue forming, isn't there?"
Wrench grunts. "Trent's herdin' the mortals."
Thessaloniki says, "No, to hurt Drew." He thinks a quiet, mean thought, sighs, and realizes it isn't worth the energy.
Shateishael grins tightly... then says slowly, "Hey, Tomas. You got any idea how come Drew never talks to folks first? I remember he was actually surprised I had folks help- uh... that I know I'll have back up when I need it. Does he really feel that alone?" Slate sounds genuinely confused.
Marlena waves faintly to Nick from the window; it's hard to see with the crowd of patrons at the window. Tomas says, "I think he's been afraid to, to be honest. Or maybe he's just stubborn. Who knows. I think the first thing I plan to do is explain to him that an older Vessel means he needs to quit doing that."
Shateishael sighs, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his long legs out, crossing his booted feet at the ankles, "Good luck, man."
Tomas says, "At the very least, in a new Role he won't be in a position to actively hurt anyone anymore. Himself included."
Thessaloniki says, "Maybe if he doesn't look like a child, he won't act like one." He adds, "I'll be right back," and walks across the street again, back into the coffee shop and over to where Marlena watches the crowd.
Shateishael mutters, "God, I hope so..."
Wrench is muttering something to himself over and over. "I don't wanna kill him. I don't! I don't wanna kill him." Shateishael grins tiredly at the basso mumble, brushing his wet, smoky blonde hair out of his face. Smoke... shit. It'll take days to get that smell out of his leathers.
Tomas blinks, then makes a face. "Holy shit, Wrench, is that you?" Wrench snarls, "My hair was on fire. Deal with it." Shateishael grins again, then glances over his shoulder at the coffee shop. Drat. Shoulda asked him to ask about Lauren.
Trent finally comes along to take statements. As the stories are all basically identical, Trent thanks everyone and extends his sympathies, lets everyone get on their way quickly, and sets about getting the wreckage cleared and mortals on their way -- professional to a fault. Shateishael sighs once after Trent leaves, and glances up at the still-standing Tomas, "Well... we tried."
Tomas smiles a little. "I've not given up yet. I'm going to regard this as the last act of a bad era in Drew's existence. And ours, by extension. Now... maybe we can get the kid to calm down."
Shateishael shakes his head amusedly, "Wish I'd thought of suggesting this earlier."
Wrench says, "Wish I hadn't got on the curb. I'd'a clotheslined him. It would have been less messy."
Shateishael nods, "Was thinking of slashing his front tire, myself... wasn't fast enough."
Wrench grins. "Heh... eheh. 'S a good one."
Shateishael sighs, "Well. Any idea what the new vessel's Role is supposed to be, Tomas?"
Tomas says, "Yeah, actually. He's gonna take your suggestion. He's going to front a band. I already have the A&R contacts and the monster here has the producer on tap, so... we'll see how that works." Wrench doesn't react at all to being referred to as 'the monster.'
Shateishael looks up in startlement at Tomas... then grins slowly, "Hot damn. Wish him luck for me, then."
Tomas nods. "Sure will. If you can keep from throttling him, you can do it yourself when he gets back."
Shateishael laughs, then grins quietly, "I'll try."
In the coffee shop again, Thessaloniki settles where he left from and says, "Well, there's a little excitement for the afternoon. One of my colleagues was a melodramatic fool. I fear I'll probably have to go. Are we still on for the symphony?" He realizes he's much less sharp and together than he was when he arrived; he's damp and smells of smoke, gasoline, and fire extinguisher. He looks a bit sheepish at that.
Marlena smiles and lightly brushes her hand across Nick's cheek. "Hold still, dear, you have soot on your face." She smiles, trying to brush his hair back into place, "Yes, Nick, of course. After that, I think we could both use the time off, no?"
Thessaloniki smiles at the brushing. He looks at the tableau outside, then says quietly, "Hard to rush in and be the dashing hero when the rescuee intends to fail, and one of the other rescuers doesn't seem to notice when he's on fire." He grins wryly, then adds, "I'll be looking forward to it, Marlena." He says a quiet goodbye to her, more politely and less rushed this time, and makes his way out again, collecting his dented first aid kit and stowing it neatly in the car. He returns to the group of celestials and sighs quietly, saying sarcastically, "Well, that was fun."
Tomas sighs heavily. "Yeah... okay. I'm tired now. And I'm wet. I'm gonna go home and have a drink. Y'all wanna come with?"
Shateishael grins quirkily at Nick, "Uh-huuuh. Hey, did you ask her about uhh... our mutual acquaintance?"
Thessaloniki says, "I was being sarcastic about the circus out here, Slate." He smiles a little, adding, "Things were fine before that." To the other question he says, "Er, no, I didn't think of it."
Shateishael looks a bit disappointed, but doesn't say anything... just nods to Tomas, "Drink sounds real good to me, yeah. Thanks."
Thessaloniki shakes his head and says, "Thank you but no, Tomas. I think I've got a thing or three to do in town, and then I want to go home, soak in the hot tub until I don't care any more, put on clean clothes, and go do something a little mindless. Sanding awaits." Shateishael has only struggling to get the smell of smoke out of wet leather awaiting him... a drink sounds wonderful.
Tomas grins, "No big, Slate." He nods to Nick, "All right, Nick. Take care of yourself, okay?" Wrench stands up slowly, shaking out his scorched and damp lock of hair. Shateishael wrinkles his nose slightly, realizing the demon is even smoke-stinkier than he, and grins as he rises easily to accompany them.
Tomas brings the stragglers back to his place. There is alcohol, and an abundance of clean towels. And... Wrench stops smelling like burnt hair.
Eventually.
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