gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG

Mid-afternoon.
Well off a frontage road, at the cusp of land that's been long-abandoned due to contaminants in the soil, there is a solitary farmhouse that looks like it's seen better days. Dilapidated and on its last legs, the once-idyllic two story home at the top of a wooded hill serves only as a refuge for the wildlife that have taken to using it as shelter. Nothing more. Like the barn that still partly stands a ways down the hill, where the land turns into open meadows, it may well contain remnants of the people that once inhabited the place, but not even its current visitors are likely to see any of it. To them, it's only a landmark.
The winding path leading to the place is largely overgrown, the Prius used to drive the two Garou out to the spot parked a good quarter-mile out from where the house stands. Trees and foliage have made parts of the dirt road near-impassible-- invisible, even in good conditions, though a Jeep could probably make it through. Sandra, as promised, stands with a shorter blonde not far from the front porch, her usual business attire swapped out for clothes that she doesn't mind dirtying up. Jeans, t-shirt, boots, all scuffed or otherwise stained.
She's nursing a cigarette, presently, waiting for Zach to make his approach, the last hit taken off of it by the time he's within earshot, the cherry flicked onto the ground and stubbed out with the heel of her boot. The butt is pocketed.
"I tried to get a hold of Salem," she tells him, without so much as a hello. "He's been harder to find than usual, lately. For now, Zach? Meet Reagan. Reagan? Zach." She inclines her head at the man. "She'll be our extra set of claws for tonight, but I'd prefer she got as clear a look at the echoes, and what you're doing, as possible. I'll be acting as primary defense."

The blonde following Sandra looks like a Seattle city folk far out of her element in the rural farm lands. Tugging her long white coat close she follows behind the taller woman but says nothing, letting the Elder speak for her. Glancing over Zach with bespeckled eyes she inclines her head towards him but remains alert. She seems.. Tense. Very tense. Hiding it behind as much stoicism as she can muster.

A Jeep you say? It is perhaps fortunate, then, that this is precisely the sort of thing Zach drives. An '85 CJ-7, in turd-brown no less. In 'Four-low' configuration, it dutifully crawls its way along that old road at a liesurely pace, pulling up near to the farmhouse and letting out an uncharacteristically low, rattley sort of motor sound; the sort of thing you get from a diesel motor rather than a gasoline version. The thing smells like french fries, too.
Zach hops out of the driver's seat via the flimsy canvas-and-plastic panel door once the engine's gone silent and the ratcheting grip of the e-brake has been engaged. He gives the two women a cursory salute as he approaches the porch and receives Sandra's introduction. "Yeah, Ghost seemed disinclined to come too, so I figured she should sit this one out anwyay. With any luck, all the security and precautions are just a waste of time," his tone of voice implies something along the lines of 'if only we could ever be so lucky.'
Reagan is given a polite nod, there was a moment where he might've seemed about to offer a hand, but something makes him rethink the gesture and instead that nod of the head deepens a little bit. "If you're observing for the record, she brief you on this?" He addresses Reagan with that, but catches some motion or other from Sandra as he asks it, he makes the question rhetorical. "Right. How much experience do you have with the ooze? Where am I starting here?"

Sandra's expression echoes Zach's tone, her brows lifting. At his question, she says, "She knows enough about it that we can skip the bulk of the details. One of her friends had close contact with the ooze about half a year ago, so she's at least aware of what it can do if it gets a hold of you." Hence the tension, one would imagine. "I believe you said you had a sample of some kind, as well, but that it had to be disposed of?" She looks back to Zach. "Otherwise, a run-down of what we're doing here, and what we should reasonably expect wouldn't hurt. I've given her an overall briefing, but I'd rather make sure we're all on the same page before we begin."

As this Ghost is said 'disinclined' to be present, Reagan clearly frowns but she makes no comment on the matter. She does nod once more in Zach's direction as he questions how much she's been briefed before her attention follows to Sandra.
Reagan speaks up finally, gloved hands in her coat pockets, "Yes. I took samples from Monica's wounds but.. I didn't get very far with it." Leaving it at that. Her attention is nearly full, even if her gaze drifts off to the woods at various points.

"Right," Zach says, taking in both women's statements and going from there. "So, a while back, I took it upon myself to destroy this ooze stuff. If you're into your sci-fi, it's the Grey Goo scenario, only instead of nanomachines this stuff appears to be almost a viral infection of fabric of... everything. Material and nonmaterial objects alike decohere around this stuff and are rendered down into this same oozelike state. I'm still not a hundred percent on the details of it, myself, but part of the problem is that it corrodes non-material objects - objects like the idea of itself.
"After trying a couple of basic techniques, I ultimately settled on something mystics call the Lion's Roar. It's got like, a thousand synonyms, but basically amounts to taking it apart at the sub-quantum level. That worked... in a way. It got rid of the ooze sample... at least the sample that existed in the moment that I took the shot.
"The problem is that as this stuff eats away at whatever it comes into contact with, it seems to spontaneously arise from the site that gets damaged. A certain grumpy old man several people have been in touch with describes these in wound terms, and that got me thinking about that interface between what's left of the object and the ooze itself - which is where the new ooze seems to arise from.
"Following on that virus/wound metaphor, I got the idea to try shoring up the 'wound.' Essentially repairing the damaged object itself, in the hope that this will stem further emission of the ooze from infected objects. If this is successful, we have a complete protocol for containment and cleanup of this stuff - expensive though the methods might be. It's still better than this stuff endlessly corroding everything it comes into contact with until the whole of existence is just a giant ball of the stuff."

Sandra nods once the explanation comes to a close, even if she wasn't necessarily the intended audience. Then says, "For all that the method could stir up the Wheel Builder and cause its own host of problems, we're not getting anywhere standing around and contemplating what we've been given so far," and, arguably, she'd be the one to know. Currently, anyway. "That said," she goes on, turning to look at Zach, "there is the small matter of communication. I have a decent grasp of communicating in the form I'll be using, but it takes time, and energy, both of which it'd be best to assume we wont have. If there's a means for you to communicate with the both of us that doesn't require either of us speaking in English, now would be the time to implement it."

To say Reagan looks skeptical is an understatement but most of what he says parses with her own information. Her dour expression remains in place as she listens to the descriptors and ultimately his solution. Only at the end she finally queries in a cold, clinical tone, "And how do we go about repairing the objects in contact?"
Her gaze again returns to Sandra. A shift of her lips suggests unease with the notion but keeps her commentary to herself.

Zach addresses Reagan's questions first. "That's what I'm here to do. There's two possibilities of what might be necessary for this that I'm prepared to explore. The test subjects are some maple saplings I've sprouted and cultivated to be large enough that they should survive a minor contact with the stuff. Plant life is very simple in its basic structure, and I will use Reiki techniques to restore the plant to health while excising the ooze we introduce to it.
"The other technique is... complicated to explain but basically amounts to this: this stuff causes objects to de-cohere and shed parts of themselves, but until they're fully destroyed, they should still have an intact Entelechy. I'm going to also try simply infusing a given object - either a sapling or, I also brought some bars of scrap 1040 steel I had laying around - with additional material and allow the object to attempt to recohere according to its own impulses. Either method might succeed, or both, or neither. It's data in any outcome.
"Where I needed security, however, is because of what happened last time I destroyed a sample. Apparently this makes noise along whatever wavelength the Echoes exist and they... respond. I was first visited by a bird-like individual who kept repeating things I'd said to me via various communication means until it ran out of things I'd said and said something about being 'the end of days' or something creepy like that.
"Since then, any time I've been interacting with Ki in motion, the echoes have zeroed in on me. There's a lot going on there, but the short version is, this all is very likely to draw their attention and if the show, I'm sick of running... and don't even know how consistently I'll be able to keep escaping them, either. So. Lots of learning gonna happen today."
He then takes a moment to address Sandra's concerns about communication between them. "Language is... a thing that I don't worry about. I speak about a dozen myself, and as long as it's clear that you're trying to communicate? I can suss out the rough idea of what you're saying without any additional prep-work. Beyond that, though, we'd have to sit down and do some kind of sign language primer or whatever. For our situation, the basics should be sufficient, though."

Sandra arches a brow at Reagan when a glance is cast her way. She hadn't missed the skepticism there, either, really, but given the tone of the question, it may yet be raised as a point worth mentioning. For now, she turns her attention back to Zach, though she keeps an eye on the other Garou in her peripheral version. Most of this, it appears she's heard before.
"He's of the same sort as our cougar friend," she notes to Reagan, in case all the talk of 'Ki' is about to make the ultra-literal Theurge's head explode. To what Zach says regarding communication, she nods, seeming to take it at face value that the man knows what he's talking about. Nonetheless-- "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to test the theory before we begin. I don't want any surprises when we're in the thick of it, and I'd like to know what to be prepared for if I have to give any short commands."

Reagan stares at Zach imperiously, tilting her chin just so as she watches his exposition down the length of her nose. There is a disdain there that she cannot hide but she does not voice it.
"Alright." Is all she says to that, apparently satisfied enough. Or at least, she's committed to this now, going back isn't in the cards. Especially while playing 'wingman' to Sandra.

"It sounds like.. Whatever it is he's doing will summon trouble in short order anyway." Not entirely satisfied with that line of thinking, frowning significantly but she seems resolved. Drawing her hands from her pockets to flex them one after the other, slowly shifting in a rotation to watch the tree lines once again.

Zach nods, once, to all that's been said. Sandra's request in particular, however, gets a verbal response. "Ich verstehe," he says. "Gehen wir weiter." And here's the thing about his German: While his English has no placable accent (though his use of idiom and word choice marks him as American born), his German? That's fluency and a natively accented version of it. It'd take someone with extensive scholarship in the language, or someone who grew up in Germany itself, to place the accent, mind you, but it's smooth as butter when he switches to it, and there's zero difficulty in his switching back again. "How do you want to test it?"

Sandra's head cants slightly, a note of curiosity appearing in her expression when he speaks. It doesn't turn to a slight lack of understanding until the following statement is made, however, and she makes no attempt to hide the furrow in her brow that communicates as much. To his question, though--
"I prefer a straightforward method," she says, taking a few steps away from the pair for-- very good reason. That Fenrir blood has a way of adding height that the others don't, as much, the slow breath she takes once she's in place leading to the usual bone-cracking shift up through Glabro, and then on to a solid-- That has to be at least ten feet of grey-furred werewolf standing there, give or take a few inches. Not that anyone's counting. Big is big.
~There may still be a barrier,~ she says, not bothering speak slowly; the growls and body language cues of the Mother Tongue are all used at her usual pace. ~For us, this is innate. Practically instinct. It's not learned in the same way English is.~ It's clear, at least, that she's speaking to get the man used to the sound and method of it; see if it can track, anyway. ~If you can't understand me, I suggest having Watches-the-Small take Glabro so she can translate, if it's necessary. Until then--~
She gives a smooth gesture of her hand, about as human as any she's given so far, something that may well look almost comically polite, all things considered. "Shall we?" she says in English, enunciating enough to be understood, but the razor-blade vocal chords still manage to make it sound like she's threatening to kill all his loved ones.

The German does not spark recognition in Reagan's eyes, only speaking good ol' Americana. And that other thing, as Sandra demonstrates. It's clear that even Reagan, a fellow Garou, is intimidated by Sandra's form as she also takes a few steps back, gaze sweeping up with wide eyes. While she seems prepared to follow suit, the growling string of words suggests she should stay as she is until Zach affirms he can understand the Mother Tongue. She glances in his direction, waiting.

You want intimidation? As Sandra goes through the shift and enters the crinos form, Zach's entire physical self goes into overdrive. The stench of fear - raw and primal - immediately soaks the air around him as The Delerium works on the man at the instinctual level. Instinct, however, is not Zach's master. Where almost any other human would've shit himself and run, Zach remains composed throughout. If anything, he's impressed with Sandra's work and visibly gives 'props' with his facial expression, even as his body rebels against remaining here. His one concession, perhaps, is a subtle shift to how he keeps his feet. He watches the crinos' display, and when it switches to more human gesturing and the use of English, he recites: "We might still have some trouble, because.... this language isn't like other languages... because... it's... intrinsic, somehow?" He's not entirely sure on that one. "If this doesn't work, Reagan should do.... something... and act as a conduit... relay maybe?" He squints as he recites, as if he's having to work with very unfamiliar inputs (go figure). And he ends on the silent and tonally implied inquiry of 'do I have that right?'

It probably doesn't help that the Philodox's ears tilt forward when she catches the scent, the focus of those amber eyes turning a touch sharper. Her nostrils flare, the breath let out in a light huff, a low, wordless rumble heard in her chest. It's not a happy sound, but neither is it particularly threatening. To what he says, however, she nods, signaling that he got it correct.
~Translate,~ she says, solidifying the word. ~I said that, in the beginning, Reagan should remain in a form that's near-human to translate, if it's necessary. It doesn't appear as though it is.~ She sniffs the air again, and watches Zach a moment longer. Without warning, she takes a step forward - towards him - as if to test that response of his. Regardless of the outcome, she says, ~I'm impressed you're still standing,~ seeming to damn well mean it. ~Most would've collapsed or fled, in your condition. Will holding that impulse back pose a problem for your concentration?~

As it seems the man can hear the Mother Tongue well enough, Reagan relaxes fractionally. The idea of being stuck in a less-than-optimal form for impending combat does not thrill her.
None of this thrills her to be fair.
She does not eagerly shift to the form of the Destroyer yet, watching Sandra and Zach interact with mute analysis from the Crinos' mighty shadow.

Zach squints at the clarification. It's obvious that understanding the Mother Tongue takes some doing, on his part, and the more complex the idea being related, the more he has to spend time thinking about it. Still, he's also able to do this under the duress of cortisol release. When he's complimented, however, there's no mistaking the half-grin that slips onto his face - albeit a second or two after the compliment is delivered. "Not my first rodeo," he answers, "the mind commands; the body obeys." It's that simple, for him. "We'll be fine. So... showtime then?" He 'casually' (all of his motions in a casual space have a hint of being feigned at this point) points a thumb back towards his Jeep. "I could use a hand carrying stuff to wherever we want ground zero to be."

Sandra gives Zach a short, affirmative nod, her head turning to look at Reagan. ~You can take war form when we begin,~ she tells the Theurge. ~I'll stay this way for now to let you acclimate to how I sound and how you're feeling. The moon is small; it won't weigh on my temper.~ 'Temper' has weight to it, the way she says it, but if this isn't his first rodeo, he may have some sense of what that means. May. He seemed to scoff at her the last time she said it. ~Point out what you need carried,~ she says, moving towards the Jeep. ~The way the ooze moves through things, I doubt that it will matter much if we're in a wide open space, or in a 'fortified' position-- so I'd prefer wide open, if it's all the same to you. Greater visibility that way.~

Reagan takes a breath, looking at the treeline one more time in paranoia. Unlike Sandra she seems a bit reluctant to make the change, especially in the presence of someone who isn't Garou.
With resignation she doubles-forwards as if taken a punch to the gut. Moments later her coat is pierced by thousands of golden locks as she bulges up into the form of the Destroyer.
Compared to Sandra she's quaint and feminine in a terrible way. Almost more vulpine in her slenderness but a tall Werewolf none-the-less. Predatory eyes seize upon Zach from a few inches above his head, offering a simple growl as she stalks behind Sandra.
If anything she's glad to have the extra muscle if she has to play gear-caddy.

Zach spares a second round of admriation for the whole process of shifting, though he's fairly circumspect about it - he doesn't gawk or stare, that'd be rude. All the same, this is a thing he respects and even relishes to some degree. "Yeah," he agrees, to the instruction from the larger of the two. He heads for the Jeep and pops the tailgate open. (There's an anvil back here, among other things.) Zach takes up a basic pump-action 20 gauge shotgun, the sort of thing one can obtain at Walmart with few, if any, questions asked. He also grabs a box of shells, because he's not an idiot and doesn't transport a firearm loaded. These he keeps to himself.
What needs carried here consists of a milk-crate with a dozen mason jars of black, hard-to-look-at oozey stuff inside. Way more than this little experiment probably requires. "That crate," he indicates, "is the ooze itself." The remainder is four flats, each with a pair of potted maple saplings in simple black plastic pots, these will play the role of guinea pigs today, and a few 2oz ingots of lead. The quality of these ingots suggests they're done on amateur equipment, he may have even hand-cast them. All of this needs staged to a flat, open area. Finally, a large pyrex baking dish, which will serve as the 'glass vessel' for the actual experiment itself. "If this goes absolutely bonkers, a final resort effort involves me giving the Lion's Roar to the whole experimental set up and simply obliterating ooze and the infected objects in one fell swoop. I really want to avoid that if I can." The way he says it, the process sounds... incredibly unpleasant to enact.

Sandra's posture is a bit more upright when Reagan shifts alongside her, her ears staying pricked and forward. Little point in wondering why this might be the case.
She follows instructions in respects to the necessary placement, having chosen an open patch of field with some level, bald spots of dirt, any rocks or debris that might get in the way scraped away with little effort. The crate - perhaps unsurprisingly - is taken into her care first and foremost, the less volatile cargo turned over to Reagan. She is, also unsurprisingly, careful to place and handle the crate to Zach's specifications.
~Understood,~ she says-- then pauses. ~I assume,~ she says, then, ~that we'd best keep clear of this Lion's Roar when it's enacted? Or is it targeted?~ Beat. ~Either way, any time you're ready.~

Watches-The-Small observes the man equip weapons mutely, hunched forward like a lupine gargoyle. As he reveals the crate of ooze and states its nature, her head hikes up with her ears perking high. Eyes widely stareing with raw intensity. It's clear she has questions but unlike her compatriot she doesn't bother using Speech. Apart from the crate of ooze she goes about lifting and moving the pieces as directed. Her eyes never leaving the milkcrate for very long.
Once prepared she quickly lopes to Brings-Winter's-Bite side, briefly running on all fours before crouching and staring at the ready.

"I don't hit friendlies," Zach affirms, "but like... don't get between me and it when I throw." He's loading the shotgun's magazine as he speaks, the final shell being chambered with a cycle of the shotgun's pump. "So step one is going to be exposing a sapling to the ooze." He moves to pick up one of the test subject trees (they all look like they're about two years worth of growth, though those familiar with Zach's involvement might recognize that this timetable isn't actually possible.) He sets the pot in the Pyrex dish and moves to take out one of the mason jars of ooze sample. "I'm going to aim for an exposure in the fifty gram range, to foliage. I'll give it some time to establish before I intervene. Intervention for this phase will be a smaller Lion's Roar to scrape away the introduced contagion and then attempt to repair the plant after I've confirmed that the subject is behaving as expected." He narrates as he goes, probably for clarity of intent, and to give folks a chance to decide that this is all way too crazy and they should clearly stop. Assuming no one avails themselves of that option, however, he unseals the ooze, holds the mason jar over the sapling, and begins a decanting motion, carefully observing the behavior of the ooze in the jar to see what adjustments he needs to make as he pours.

The ooze pours, more or...less. At first, it behaves not unlike sluggish jelly, ever in a downward direction, as gravity would direct. Then, a close eye might notice that some of it, while still moving downward, seems to twitch in odd, non-gravitational directions. These are just little wriggles at first. Tiny deviations that might just be tricks of the eye. And then slightly larger ones, ones that are decidedly not tricks, ones that seem to reach more for the sapling than the ground, or, on one occasion, back up toward Zach.

Those times the Philodox watches the ooze being poured, it's in rapt silence. She doesn't spare too much time for it, however, keeping the bulk of her attention on the clearing; patroling it quietly, making a gesture to the Theurge to keep her eyes on the main event, as intended, saying only, ~I'll alert you if I see anything.~ She's raised no objections to said process as it's been narrated so far, seeming 'content' to stay on her circular route, taking care to peer past the treeline. With it being broad daylight, Black Shit Everywhere should be easier to spot.
And speaking of-- turning back to what's going on to see the ooze in motion - and seeing it reach back towards Zach - her hackles bristle subtly, a low growl raising from her throat.
~Careful,~ she says, though it's doubtful the man doesn't see it. And loathe though she is to turn away, she nonetheless continues, though she spares more than an occasional glance towards Zach until this round of reach-out-and-touch-someone is concluded. Just in case.

Watches-The-Small does not growl, nor does she blink. Living up to her namesake as she observes the ooze being wielded directly for the first time. She seemed to hear Brings-Winter's-Bite but makes no outward sign. Her ears directed towards Zach's operation at all times. If she has any reaction whatsoever her ears begin to flatten and her heckles silently raise as the stuff proves magnetic to living tissue.

"Oh, yeah," Zach says, as he nervously, and instinctively rolls his grip on the jar to maximize the distance when it reaches for him like that. "It does /that/, too. This shit thinks I'm /delicious./ Wait 'til you see what it does when I grasp Power." The way he says it, this is solidly into 'hold my beer' territory. When he's satisfied with the level of exposure, he rocks the jar to and fro, after re-orienting it to end the spillage with a twist of his wrist to cleanly end the decantation. The next step is to re-seal once the stuff is back into the bottom of the jar. "My prior experiments don't give me more than a basic guideline, but I did some maths on the mass involved in these maples and I think we're good to go pretty soon here. I'm going to prepare the Roar. It's... unsettling, if you haven't seen it before, so... don't freak out."

Winter's Bite gives a low grunt in response, seeming a touch irritated that she can't observe more thoroughly. She does, however, take Zach's warning to heart, pausing in her stride to take a look around and, more importantly, take a slow breath. In with the calm, out with the agitation.

It takes some maneuvering to get the remainder of the ooze to behave enough to seal it back in the jar, but Zach manages. As for the ooze on the maples, while it more or less remains in one place, it's clearly still wriggling, looking like nothing so much as a sticky mass of wet black worms moving in all directions, attaching itself to leaves and wrapping around twigs.

Zach steps back from the 'experiment' now to give some distance between what he's up to and what the ooze is up to. He takes a moment to settle his feet into a meditative stance, and to bring his hands together in front of him. Those initiated in such things would recognize Qigong. His breathing takes on a deliberateness in the next moment... and then something else happens; the air around him, between them, about them, is suddenly filled with something less than a physical sensation but more than a passing shiver of the hackles. It's a steady press just beyond the reach of consciousness, a gut feeling of dynamic forcefulness. It's the moment right before lightning strikes, when the hair stands on end, that great potential for something potent and probably not entirely safe. That moment stretches out into minutes as Zach allows the ooze to take hold in the sacrificial sapling.

The shock of energy does, indeed, get something in answer. Whether or not the Mage is aware of it, the Theurge certainly will be, the scent of an instinctual desire-- *need* to attack rather suddenly on the rise. It's muted; bitten back, without a sound to mark its passing, the internalized energy channeled not into waiting and watching, but in moving. Winter's Bite continues her circuit around the clearing, taking care to keep her pace slow, and her attention as focused on their surroundings as possible.

Watches-The-Small is holding her breath. She does not realize she is, but she is. Wolfen eyes watching the hypnotic non-newtonian motions of the black ooze. Unable to explain the existential horror as it creeps upon the sapling. Her heckles remain raised as she continues to fight some kind of urge, Rage creeping into her throat as her claws flex.
It's a good thing Winter's-Bite is mindful enough of her surroundings as Watches is less so.
There's a small flutter nearby, but not too near. Feathers? Wings? There it is, perched on the top of Zach's jeep, a small black bird with slightly long tail feathers, roughly the size of a crow.

Winter's Bite pauses for only a moment before she starts to move again, slowly asserting her presence between the bird and the two closer to the saplings. She fixes the-- creature-- with a careful gaze, studying it, one ear cocking back to listen for any more movement.
"Company," she says, foregoing the Mother Tongue for English, if only for this one simple warning.

"Then I guess we're going to the fireworks factory," Zach murmurs, with a completely distracted tone. His stance shifts, from the quiet, meditative posture to something more martial. His hands gesture with aggression and he exhales in a wordless kiai that echoes around them all like silent thunder. What is unleashed by that kata must be the Lion's Roar. It is a piece of Zach, loosened from his pattern, given dire velocity, and it tears through reality itself where the strike is directed. As the ooze is described to do, itself, this blast that Zach lets loose rends and shreds whatever it touches, unraveling it back into the basic building blocks of existence - which immediately dissipate back to their source. That forceful press becomes a thing of white-hot rage, a shout for all of reality to hear: Zach commands the ooze: Be no more. He doesn't wait for the results of his handiwork to become apparent, he assesses on the run, as he rapidly closes the distance with the sapling in the wake of his efforts. Now comes the time for something more soothing: Speed Reiki(tm).

Just as Watches tears herself from the ensuing spectacle of the Black and the Green to heed Winter's warning, there's a shout. Not just any shout but one that startles her on a fundamental level. A shockwave the ripples through her being for being in it's vicinity. She hazards a yelp and hops a step back, claws held up before her face as she stares at this man as he reveals his true power.
The wriggling tendrils on the sapling...cease. It's the only word that seems to fit what happens. It's as though they evaporate, except even that's not enough to really quantify their utter and sudden lack of presence. The sapling itself appears wilted and gnawed where the ooze was, browned and blackened as if some unpleasant tree disease had suddenly afflicted it, but the ooze itself is nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, as Winter's Bite looks at the black bird, in the space of a single blink, in, in fact, that moment in which the Lion's Roar is completed, there are now two of them, perched on the roof of the jeep, staring back at her with beady, dark red eyes. Their feathers seem damp and unhealthy.

Winter's Bite grits her teeth against the sound, not turning to look at what's happened, though her response plays out plainly in how her hackles bristle, her every muscle pulled tight. She licks her teeth once, twice, a sharp growl raising from her throat as one bird becomes two.
~I take it from the growing audience that it worked,~ she says, chancing a glance at the rest of the clearing, rather than continue to watch the birds, though her focus returns there rather quickly.

"Still working," Zach says as he dashes into the sapling and... lays on hands. On a plant? That shit works? After a moment's 'examination,' the corner of Zachs lips twists up. His eyes are closed as he goes through the motions of massaging the sapling here, making base contact there, appearing to breathe 'through' the structure of the sapling. When he'd described this process, he made it sound like this would be relatively straightforward and quick. That press is back, though now in a more merciful guise; It's still just as forceful, just as demanding of the very fabric of existence around him - but this time the command has none of the hateful edge of the Roar. This time he bids the sapling to live, to find its health again.

Watches remains torn, while the growing murder of feathers is noted with some alarm, she can't take her eyes off Zach's ministrations to the plant. Confused and confounded by the spectacle of the ooze's disintegration, she tentatively sniffs at the air leaning a few inches closer even as she stands many feet away. Fascinated and entranced by the process..

What happens next is not nearly so dramatic. A tiny bit of green returns to the sapling beneath Zach's hands, so gradually that it's hard to spot at first. The leaves slowly unwilt. Pieces of them even seem to return. It's very slow. Almost painstaking. But the plant returns to its original vibrancy bit by little bit. And by the time this is accomplished, there are not two, but four black birds sitting on Zach's jeep, not there one moment, and there the next.

And as the birds begin to multiply-- ~They're replicating two-fold,~ Winter's Bite says. ~First one, then two. Two, then four.~ She glances briefly back towards Zach and the saplings, though, as always, her attention remains on the birds, and their surroundings, her nostrils flaring to try and pick up a scent of some kind, if there's anything to be had. ~I hope for your sake that your Jeep is replaceable.~

"What's this about my Jeep?" Zach, of course, isn't paying attention to his Jeep. Everything he's got is focused on this tree. Achingly slowly, the man is nursing the thing back to health. He seems almost elated with the process. The destruction he let loose before is one thing, but this? This is /real/ power: lifegiving. "I think this is working... how's containment going on the gatecrashers? I have to finish this or it'll start oozing again."

~Magpies.~ Watches-The-Small growls as she finally pays attention to the Hitchcockian multiplication. Tearing her gaze away from Zach as she spins about, growling in full as she finally recognizes the significance of what these filthy things represent.
Perhaps as mostly a warning, the Blonde Crinos stamps her fore-claws into the Earth, hard enough to tear divots as she howls a loud warning. Hoping to send the creatures scattering away if there's a shed of normality left to them.

The birds, unfortunately, stay where they are. There's little more than a wing rustle among them at the loud howl from Watches-the-Small, and it seems as though they merely stare back at her. All...eight of them.

A sharp snarl splits through the howl, the Shadow Lord baring her teeth as she turns a sharp gaze towards the Watches-the-Small. Though there's a very clear temptation to bark out something else, she keeps her gaze partly on the assembled birds. When they multiply again--
~You act when I tell you to act,~ she says to the Theurge firmly, the rise of her temper bitten back-- again. ~Understood?~ It's all coming in little fits and starts, her attention turning back to the birds. ~I've got my eyes on the perimeter. You, keep your eyes on the experiment.~ To Zach, she says, ~We've got eight birds perched on your Jeep. There'll be sixteen in no time, and they're not particularly interested in dispersing.~

"Well fuck." Zach says, helplessly. He's not giving up on this plant, though he perhaps finds some reserve of internal energy and 'puts his back into it,' you know... metaphysically speaking. That press of his resonance grows just that little bit more intense as he works to save the sapling. "I'm going as fast as I can here, but the wounds that shit leaves are... /nasty/. This is... a mess. It's working but... this is much harder than this sort of thing usually is. It's almost like these wounds don't /want/ to close."

Watches' howl is cut short as the mightier Shadow Lord snarls at her. Immediately the Crinos hunches down, arching her neck in reflexive submission. Curling her arm to her chest as she stays low and silent now. ~Yes.~ She responds promptly, only sparing a glance in her direction as she returns her attention to the burgeoning flock.

Indeed, sixteen unhealthy black magpies are perched on the jeep within a few more blinks--not just the roof now, but the hood, crowding each out, occasionally shuffling, but making very little overall noise--all blinking red beady eyes at the Garou and mage. The plant continues healing under Zach's ministrations, but true to his words, the going is painstakingly slow, practically reluctant.

The acquiescence appears to satisfy Winter's Bite, at least, though it's arguable that she isn't paying much of any attention to anything beyond the growing number of birds. ~Somehow,~ she says to Zach, ~that doesn't surprise me. You're effectively snatching existence back from pure--~ There's a pause. ~Maybe we're focusing on the wrong target.~ Beat. ~Stop me if I sound insane, but: what do you suppose would happen if you used this-- technique, whatever it is, on the Magpies? God knows you've got enough candidates to choose from.~ And there'll be more where those came from.

"It calls them," Zach answers, distractedly. "So my gut says more show up. Plus... what happens when you're surrounded by - pardon me here - a pack of wolves... and you shoot one of 'em?" Still, there's a sense in his tone - which he's entirely terrible at hiding - that this is a question he's wondered about himself. "Either way I'm committed to fixing this tree, now. If I leave it, it starts oozing so..." There's a rhythm forming in that sense of his work that emanates from Zach under these conditions, and what with it having been out there for the sensing for so long now, the ebb and flow of his attention as he works the problem before him may become more obvious.

Having been shushed once, Watches remains at the ready. Fighting the urge to growl fiercely at these unhealthy things she remains crouched with her rending claws tensed and ready. Her heart thundering in her chest.

For a very long few moments, as Zach heals the tree, and the two Garou stand ready, the pack of birds holds there at sixteen. ...And then, for a breath, just a breath, what might be thirty-two horrible, slick feathered black magpies sprawl out over the jeep and the ground around it.
Before they're gone. Every last bird is simply not there, although the air feels crisp and chill.

Winter's Bite loosens another low grunt in acknowledgement, her every muscle going tense as the air cools. ~They're gone,~ she says, looking immediately at their surroundings. ~All of them.~ To Watches-the-Small, she says, ~Eyes on the perimeter,~ gesturing to the circle around them. She doesn't outright say that they might be running out of time; undoubtedly, Zach is already painfully aware of that possibility.

"Tree's better, now." Zach says, almost exhausted. He grabs the shotgun that he'd laid nearby, next, and breathes heavily with the exertion of... making a small sapling be a sapling again. Really, for someone who just obliterated something out of existence with a breath (and fancy Kung-fu moves) that really seems like the sort of thing that probably shouldn't have winded him so badly. "They're... gone?" He looks over at his Jeep again and, sure enough. So now he's sweeping the perimeter, hands holding the shotgun well below anything like a proper condition zero carry. "I wondered if they were stronger around the river," he said. "This would seem to be a 'yes.'"

The birds may be gone but Watches tension is not. The way she stares at that jeep would suggest she sees the invisible. Her focus only broken as Winter issues new orders, which she eagerly obeys. Taking a few steps away the sniffs at the air loudly, ears turning like radar straining to hear the slightest sound of a feather in the breeze.

Indeed, there's no sight, no sound, no scent of the birds. As strangely and immediately as they appeared, they're nowhere to be found. The air around the jeep is even colder, palpably so. The windows have gone a bit frosted. But there's no sign of birds, and no sign of anything else nasty.

Winter's Bite snorts, stepping closer to the Jeep. The chill is noted, a glance cast back in Zach's direction. ~And how long did it take the temperature to regulate?~ she asks him. ~Because, for as much as it's good that you were able to heal the sapling,~ and for as much as that's a throw-away comment, one can safely assume that she recognizes how much that took out of him, ~if this remnant chill is commonplace, it's distinctly possible that the Nothing doesn't care.~ Doesn't stop her from keeping her eyes on everything she *can* keep her eyes on, mind, though the bulk of her attention is focused on the Jeep, for the immediate moment, the Philodox taking great pains to edge in slowly, giving herself room to manuever in case-- Well. In case.

"Cold?" Zach repeats back, turning his attention towards his ride now. This is news to him. "Their presence eats at everything around them so yeah heat would be a thing it could corrode..." All of this is just idle chatter as he approaches the vehicle. "The chill isn't a thing I've seen before though. And no, the Echoes don't have an emotional reaction about this - that would require them to be capable of thought, which as I understand it, they basically aren't. They react purely out of instinct or... more like magnetism, if that makes sense? Action, reaction. They don't show up because they want revenge or to stop us or anything. They just show up because that's what they do when you poke at this stuff.
"That doesn't mean they're not absolutely dangerous, mind you."

A low growl raises from the Shadow Lord as she continues to inspect the Jeep, though she spares Reagan a momentary glance. ~Head back home,~ she says. ~Let the others know that we may have company tonight. The Guardians should be at the ready. And if you catch any static, call immediately.~ She takes another couple steps closer to the Jeep itself, until she's right next to it, letting the Theurge take her leave-- potentially after some arguing and/or coaxing, given givens.
She's sniffing at the windshield specifically, still primed and ready for the vehicle to do something untoward. Before long, she reaches out to touch the glass, drawing the calloused pad of her forefinger over it, her thumb drawing over it once that little 'experiment' is finished. ~It's not warming up,~ she says, though Zach's likely gathered that for himself by now.

"Thanks for the backup," Zach says after Watches, taking the time to put some actual body language into the expression of genuine gratitude. Zach doesn't hesitate to put his hand directly into contact with the Jeep's frame, squinting at it. "Yeah it is," he says, after a moment. "Just... slowly. Air's a shitty conductor. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this was backbite - work of the Consensus." He takes his hand off the frame and shakes the hand vigorously to raise circulation to that extremity. "They got it righteously cold, too." This? This is fascinating to Zach. The shotgun is set aside for now, and he's eyeing the frost patterns on the plastic windows. "Even the canvas and plastic iced up, and those don't transmit heat very well, either."

Winter's Bite doesn't bother shifting back just yet, herself, apparently preferring to stay in this form in case it ends up being necessary, clawed fingers skirting over the windshield again. In spite of the raw aggression this form seems to exude, there's a definite air of corresponding curiosity in her, as well, one ear cocking to one side to exemplify this point.
She glances up at Zach. ~There were thirty two magpies before they vanished,~ she says. ~And only for a moment.~ A pause. ~Do you suppose they were attempting to reach a sort of critical mass before staging a retaliation? Or was this-- for lack of a better term, merely a curiosity, on its part?~

"That's one of the many sixty-four thousand dollar questions," Zach agrees, the acknowledgement doubling as an admission of ignorance on his part. "This is my... third?" He thinks for a moment, then nods, "Third. Encounter with them. I was a little distracted at the time, mind you, but from what you describe, aside from the binary division? This was their least threatening guise. Why Magpies though, is what I wonder. Were they actually doubling? Or was that just how it appeared as more and more of whatever was manifesting that way pushed its way through. I finished patching up the hole the /instant/ you said they vanished...
"Which suggests that the wounds that ooze like this might be how they anchor themselves here or are otherwise made manifest. That might be the actual location of wound: the space between that which exists in materium - for lack of a better term - and that which exists only in memory?" He shrugs, this is all conjecture, for now. He rubs his hands together, presumably for warmth but there's a whisper of that forceful nature of his as he does it, and then he grabs the iced up hooks that hold the hood in place and barehands getting the thing propped open to examine the engine compartment.

It may not be the most comforting thing to have a giant wolf monster hovering over one's shoulder, though she's at least kind enough to make sure that she's not blocking his light. And kind enough to take a couple steps back, if she senses that his tension is in any way on the rise. Otherwise, she keeps her attention as much on their surroundings as she does on the guts of the vehicle, as mindful of anything that might spring out at them from the Jeep's interior as she is of anything that might spring from the forest.
~I'd heard,~ she says, ~that echoes have remnants of the purpose that had in life.~ A pause. ~If that's true, then that - and lack of influence in the area in general - might explain the Magpies.~

Zach is possibly very out of touch with his own body. Her proximity does nothing for the way The Delerium takes hold in him, but his behavior is utterly unchanged, and there isn't much in the way of additional signs of tension - he is as comfortable around her as is likely possible, all said and done. He might not be kidding when he said 'not my first rodeo,' it's possible he's had some experience around the Crinos form.
"Why? What's so special about birds?" He touches various engine parts here and there - the engine is very obviously not original; it fits in a purely ad-hoc manner, and most of it is quite obviously much newer than the 22 year old frame it sits in. "No damage... but I doubt it'll light on its own until the block warms up."

Winter's Bite watches him for a moment or two; studies him, more correctly, her expression-- well. For all that there are almost certainly some human traits buried in there, the dominant lupine traits don't lend a great deal of detail.
~How much gas was in it before you got here?~ she says. ~If you had a quarter tank at least, it should be fine. If not, you're probably right.~ Spoken like someone familiar with the cold. She takes a moment or two after to study him a moment longer, then straightens, taking a couple steps away to sniff at the air again.
In the midst of this, she says, ~I don't have time to ask how familiar you are with us. What you do, and don't know. But I can ask about your intentions, at least.~ She looks towards Zach, then, and says, ~Can you reasonably say that, barring direct threat of attack from those werewolves even we consider enemies, you will not use what I have to say about my kind to intentionally harm us?~ It's a carefully worded question, leaving room for the 'if' variables. Though she does go on to say, ~This includes the passing of information to those who would, mind you.~

"Tank should be about half full, but I run on vegtable oil rather than diesel so it already has flow problems. I'm not worried about the water in the tank, though." He's still tinkering when she starts sniffing at him with significant intent, but damned near within the moment that her gift goes active, he stills. A crinos hovering over him doesn't give him much pause but that? That positively sets his tension through the roof. He doesn't answer immediately. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "Okay," he says, diverting away from the question to launch into something else as he pulls out of the engine compartment. "First thing's first. You want to pull shit like that?" And now he's turning to face her, stance widening a little bit, with a firm 'not backing down here' set - though also a careful lack of outright aggression. "You /ask first/. I don't fuck around when it comes to consent (truth), and I'll appreciate you showing the same courtesy (truth)." He holds up an index finger as if to say 'so that's one thing.'
He does, however, eventually come around to her question - however unsatisfying his reply might be. "The 'us' there is a pretty problematic thing (truth). I take people as individuals (vaccuous truth). You're a 'who,' to me - not a what (fervently held truth). Same as everyone else (same). I have no idea who all you consider to be an enemy or a friend (moderate exaggeration), so when you ask for me to reasonably predict the behavior of uncounted and unspecified individuals? That basically puts me into an impossible puzzle (truth). So no, I can't reasonably say anything about the future like that (mild exaggeration). But as a rule, I don't generally go around meaning people harm (qualified truth). Where someone gives me reason? I use whatever is at my disposal (qualified truth). I don't care who you think you are to me, if you're trying to kill me, I'm shutting you down (truth). So try again."

The Philodox's chin raises slightly, a move that appears to be somewhat instinctual rather than a means of actually attempting to intimidate him. She listens; doesn't appear to take offense to it, for whatever that's worth.
When he's done, she remains silent for a time, continuing to watch him. After a moment, she nods, and takes a moment to ease back into her breed form. It's a little odd, watching fur give way to clothing-- about as odd as it probably was to see fur push *through* clothing, but it reappears as the wolfish features recede. Sandra has, it seems, decided that they're safe enough to chance returning to a 'frail' form-- either that, or there's at least some recognition of his rebuke in there, somewhere.
Both appear to be equally true, as she says, "My apologies. You must understand that the use of the ability is second nature, in and of itself. My-- I suppose you could call it a vocation among the Garou is that of an arbitrator. A Philodox; half-moon. Discerning truths, or even half-truths is, as you might guess, a necessary part of the resume." Beat. "I wanted only to know that you weren't lying-- and asking someone to submit to a lie detector test only makes it possible for someone to prepare themselves. I meant no offense."
It's all very straight-forward, as is her usual. Impassive, without making any unnecessary appeals. The 'it is what it is' approach.
"That said," she continues, "as you *are* telling the truth, I'll say that Magpie is what we often refer to as a Totem spirit. She factors into the ordeal with the Nothing in that she was the spirit that oversaw the Sept of the Last Days, which I'm sure sound familiar to you. She can also serve as a totem for packs of werewolves, granting them additional boons if they follow her prescribed methodology, as do all totem spirits." A pause. Then: "Magpie is a consummate gossip," she says. "And presumed to be one of these-- half-devoured echoes, be it on accident, or on purpose. Though her brood within the Umbra - or spirit world, or whatever you wish to call it - has been devoured, and her earthly children have vanished, as well, signs of her still persist, as we saw here," this, complemented with a gesture to the windshield.
"If the Magpies were spiritual echoes rather than the echoes of the living creatures they represent, then they may have been following their modus operandi. To gather and spread information."

Zach doesn't think much of her mitigative factors, of course, but what she goes into after that is interesting enough, perhaps, to have drawn his attention away from his philosophy of 'consent' and towards the matter at hand.
"Those /specific/ birds..." Zach says, as if putting a missing piece into place. "Okay. Yeah, a totemic relationship makes a certain amount of sense there, then." He's mostly speaking aloud as he works the puzzle through. "That would explain how the Old Man keeps such good tabs on everything, yeah..." More pieces fall into place for him. He repeats things she tried to communicate as if minor details of them were new - perhaps his grasp on the Mother Tongue isn't as solid as she might've hoped - at least not for detailed conversations. "Do they ever... form Voltron or anything like that? The first encounter I had with the Echoes involved a... thing I call Birdo McCreepyFace. Had a bunch of feathers around it, introduced itself as 'We are the last days.' I thought that was a... cult moniker or the like. Plenty of folks who want to watch the world burn pick names like 'Your Death' and shit like that I guess they figure it's intimidating. I just assumed that's what this was about, but if it's totemic in nature, the 'we' could've been that echo identifying itself through the group?"

"It's entirely possible," Sandra replies. "I'd heard that the echoes are occasionally-- amalgamations of different creatures, never quite correct. What you saw could have been something akin to that - a kin, or even a homid Garou, imbued with Magpie's features. Or it could have been the echo of a bird-shifter-- a raven. Magpie would be welcoming of them, after all." A beat. "Interestingly," she says, "the other 'known' host for the ooze that hasn't been taken over entirely is the former Warder, or primary Guardian, of the--" she searches for the word, "node?" she chances, "that the totem occupies. Her name is Mercy." There's a pause. Then: "Why she was chosen to be half-infested but not entirely erased is beyond me. And why the ooze feels a "need" to take up hosts at all seems strange."
She thinks it over-- then gives a slight shake of her head, her gaze turning back to the Jeep. "In any event," she says, "given the fluidic nature of the ooze, and the 'remnants' of what people or creatures once were being expressed through their echoes, it does seem possible that the sept still thinks of itself as a cohesive unit, in a way. Mind, I use the word 'thinks' lightly-- for lack of any better way to describe it. They did, after all, undergo an incredibly arduous ordeal just to secure Last Days in the first place, and had formed a tight-knit community on the basis of having only just lost their previous home before they stumbled upon the site. Having "died" attempting to stave off another enemy, this one far greater than the last, would explain the need to refer to the whole as 'we.'"

Zach rolled his eyes a little bit when she said the word 'node,' as if it were a question. It's hard to say, really, since he offers no expansion on what part of that effort on her part makes him scoff - but something in there struck him as eyeroll worthy. He follows along for the rest of it, or as best he can apparently as the next thing he says makes clear how out of his own depth he is.
"Which is great, I guess? But... leaves us rather back where we started. I uhhh... I do my best to stay out of the way of the spirit world." He leans up against the hood of the Jeep now, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not a source of pleasant memories. So most of this stuff just ain't my thing. This Mercy, though, what do you mean 'half' infested? This stuff, so far as I've seen, is basically a raw force of consumption and dissolution. It doesn't do anything by half - and it's progressive to boot."

"Exactly," Sandra replies. "But Mercy has appeared to more than a few people as a whole person, not an echo, no matter that her war form is described as having oily fur, like the ooze itself. Salem has seen her-- so have others. And so have I, though I thought it might be more-- representative, rather than literal." A beat. "One of the dreams," she says. "A rather vivid view of the site of Last Days itself, or what's become of it-- and of Mercy.
"She appears to have some autonomy, and continues to act as the Warder even if, arguably, there's not much left to guard. So, yes-- she presents a curiosity." She watches Zach for a moment or two. "And," she says, "perhaps-- an opportunity. But then, so does Magpie, if she happens to be in the same state." Beat. "It could be the old man's intervention," she says, "or it could be something inherent about Magpie's nature as a totem spirit. Or it could be the one sign of a calculated move that we've seen from the ooze thus far."

"Well, assuming she's not infected in some way beyond what exposure otherwise does..." Zach gestures towards the experimental set up some distance away. "We've got a reasonable lead on a treatment for the condition. I... don't think I'd be able to effect it on a /person/ without a helluva lot of careful work, mind you. Plants are pretty straightforward, people? People are /messy/. And a spirit? Forget about that... but if you've got people who know how to heal the wounds of either people or spirits, I might be able to team up with them. And if there's a chance that we can save someone from this shit?" Again, he gestures towards the kit, but this time towards the ooze samples themselves, "then count me in."

Sandra nods. "I'm not entirely sure who I could gather for that kind of endeavor," she says, "and you have to keep in mind that we'd be walking into the heart of the Nothing's 'territory'-- the epicenter. Conversely, we may well be stepping into the territory inhabited by the old man, as well. There is-- reason-- to believe that Last Days is where he's been trapped all this time, which-- no offense intended, but given the habits of warpers where it comes to our places of power - and, given his specific reputation - it'd certainly track.
"Nonetheless, a Warder never leaves the territory they patrol. It's their duty to remain behind until there's quite literally no hope of saving what they've sworn to protect, and even then, it's not uncommon for them to go down with the proverbial ship. Mercy was pivotal in securing Last Days, so her remaining behind to face the threat the Nothing posed even as the others fled makes perfect sense." Beat. "Again, what I find interesting is that she was allowed to keep something akin to autonomy-- to protect a place that, arguably, doesn't need much protection. There's a literal lake of Nothing right at its doorstep."

"I'm living proof that the Nothing needs protection," Zach snorts with some measure of mock pride and some additional measure of the real thing. "Warper eh? That's a new one... okay so wait... this is all at Hanford? The old nuke site? God damn but is there /anyone/ who hasn't has their mitts up in that business now? My money's still on the Old Man being there because the Nothing is there. I think that's who he sold his soul to. I'm sure hoping so anyway, because the alternatives get uglier. And if Mercy's still defending the place, I'm guessing we think she's doing so on the Nothing, or the Echoes' agenda and dime. But you're hedging... which...
"How serious are you about saving her? Because like... the echoes? They're pretty far gone. I doubt there's enough of them left to salvage, if I'm brutally honest here, but if she's still got autonomy? She might still have enough of her original entelechy to make the whole effort even possible."

Sandra gives a slight shake of her head. "I'll be blunt and say that I'm not being altruistic about it. 'Saving' isn't at the top of my list. Allowing her to die naturally would be the hope, and I suspect that it'd be preferable, given what she's been through-- but my interest lies in what she might know. She's had a sustained link to the Nothing since it appeared." A pause. "It's grim, I know," she says, "but it is what it is. And I'm not excluding it as a possible avenue. Any more than I'm inclined to exclude your theory that the old man sold his soul to the Nothing; that he's ultimately responsible for this mess."
She watches Zach for a moment longer. One of those moments of consideration again; of studying him. There's no itch like before, however; no sense that her internalized lie detector has been triggered. Or anything else, for that matter. No, this is just good, old fashioned scrutiny.
Then: "Your lack of experience with spirits may prove a touch problematic, though," she says. "You may know this already-- or maybe you don't, but my kind is, by nature, part spirit. I'm not sure if it *will* be an issue, but it might." She pauses again-- then says, "That said, in the interests of ensuring that we're not only on the same page, but working with the same information, I'm willing to answer any questions you might have. There may be some limitations, here and there, but if it informs your experiments, and the progress we've made here," such as it is, "it's a risk worth taking."

Zach's expression darkens a bit, but he doesn't pick a fight on the matter - not the hill he's keen to die on today. "To be clear: I don't think the Old Man is responsible for all this. I think it was here, and he decided it was a quick way to power - because it is - and then he decided to get mixed up with it." Zach gestures towards the experimental set up one more time. "The Lion's Roar is messy. It's destructive as fuck. For someone to even /use/ it is a breech of the social contract we've all made with each other that such things just aren't possible; it's a breech of the Consensus. Not even a small one, either. That's 'punching a cop in the face' levels of breaking the rules. I should be a Baskin Robbins of fucked up right now." He spreads his arms wide, "not a scratch on me. Why not? First time I took the shot at the ooze I figured it was because everybody looked at The Nothing and decided that it was /worse/ than... basically anything. Shit not staying dead? People /hate/ that shit. So they'd look the other way while I engaged in a little frontier justice or whatever. But after the encounter in the park by the river? I got a new theory.
"When I went to take a shot at one of the Echoes with the same thing? Let me tell you, it was half like they /wanted/ me to. The closer they were to me? The /easier/ that became. Shit like that is /never/ easy.
"I figure that's what drew the Old Man to the stuff. He figured out what a person could be capable of with the right knowledge and access to this stuff and it sounded like the beginning a wonderful empire. This is how the ranks of the damned keep getting fresh faces; this is what temptation looks like. But my theory that he sold his soul? It's because there's a part of me that realizes what /I/ could be capable of with that kind of power. A man could settle /all kinds/ of scores like that.
"So my questions are mostly this: why would you want her to die? Why cut her journey short just because she might've suffered? Or is it just that you don't want to hold out hope that there might be something there that could be saved, if you wind up not strong enough to pull it off?"

Sandra gives another short shake of her head as he explains his theory regarding the old man, though she doesn't comment on the matter. Gives a sense that she may have misspoke in respects to her wording, but it really isn't the primary issue at hand. She does listen, though-- to all of it, even those parts that she nods along to as one would when they're being given a refresher. The rest gets her undivided attention. The questions-- don't seem to bother her.
"First things first," she says. "You misunderstand. When I say that the hope would be allowing her to die naturally, I'm speaking in respects to what I'd consider to be a 'middle ground' outcome, not what's preferable. What's *preferable* is that she be saved; what's *likely* is that she won't be-- so I'd rather keep my expectations calibrated to that outcome. We'd arguably shoot for giving her the chance to rehabilitate, if indeed there's any chance at all, but I'll take 'dying gracefully, as her own person' as 'good enough.'"
There's definitely a pragmatic coldness to it, as it's presented, but it's nothing she hasn't demonstrated before. "The reason I believe her information is key, though, have to do with two pieces of the puzzle. One was a talk with the Ancient, which I'm not entirely sure I detailed to you. Two was the circumstances under which my tribe abandoned Last Days, which the old man may have helped to trigger. And understand that when I say 'responsible,' I mean 'screwing around with what one ought not,' for whatever reason that happens to be.
"It's assumed that my tribe was doing just that. Messing with something they couldn't control-- being influenced by it, but many assumed it was of--" she considers, "destructive origin. Wyrmish, if you're at all familiar with the term. Many saw them as descending to madness prior to the fall of Last Days, at which point a threat of 'unknown Wyrmish origin' - the Nothing - arose suddenly. Too suddenly to call for help, even from the sept I hail from, which is a negligible distance away. We could've been there in a heartbeat-- but that's as long as it took. Past that-- there isn't much information on what occurred.
"But it still gels with what you've said about the old man, is more what I meant to infer. If he *does* reside in Last Days which, yes, is very close to the Hanford site, then it's possible he was there when the incident occurred. Tapping into a place of power, and 'messing with what one ought not.'"

"I mean, we have proof positive he's screwing around with shit that someone shouldn't. The only reason I care about the order of operations here, is that if he /caused/ this? If this shit started emerging because of him? Then that puts into the scenario of 'he sold his soul before hand, and we have larger problems.' I haven't seen evidence that he's actually the triggerman here so much as a freeloader who came along after the fact, hoping to study the Nothing and harness it for his own gain - then became ensnared therein.
"When you say 'wyrmish' though," Zach changes topic away from pure speculation, "That's the uh... destroyer/corrupter aspect for your beliefs? Following the Trimurti model of Brahma - the Lifegiver, Vishnu - the Law Bringer, and Shiva - the Destroyer?"

Sandra nods, not seeming too bothered by his use of the word 'belief.' "Wyrm, Weaver - order, law bringer - Wyld - pure creation. We have the capacity to sense all three here in the 'physical' world," she says, the word more in proverbial airquotes than gestured ones, "and, surprising to no one, the Nothing tracks as none of them. But it's the only thing the inhabitants of Last Days understood of their enemy, at the time. It looked and quacked like a duck, thus--" she tips her hand in an idle gesture. "It just didn't smell like one."

"Right," Zach says, pinching the bridge of his nose at some silent or invisible mental pain. "Okay. Well, let me confirm for you that this thing's not pure anything - but it has aspects of all three, if you use that model. It creates more of itself, it destroys everything else, and it subjugates whatever it comes into contact with, rendering it as itself. Three-in-one package."
He pauses a moment before adding, as if making a joke, "Like me."
"Anyway. What's the 'Ancient?'"

"The spirit of a mountain," Sandra replies, apparently indifferent to his 'suffering.' "An old one. Old enough that all that was left of it was little more than a rock." A pause. "We sought it out to ask for any information it could give us on the Nothing. Whether or not it's seen anything like it before. It took nearly all day to wake it-- and nearly ten Garou to manage. So-- 'ancient.' But understandable enough."
She pauses, her brow furrowing. She considers for a time, looking back at the Jeep, though it's more as a focal point than anything. "I'm not entirely sure how to describe the message it passed on," she says. "It was by all rights a vision, but it was fairly straightforward. The Nothing, the Wheel Eater, is part of a cycle. The Something, the Wheel Builder, is its-- counterpart, for lack of a better word. When they wake, they feed into each other, two halves of a larger whole. When they wake, they shape the landscape around them, usually in catastrophic ways. And with the Eater awake-- chances are, the Builder isn't far behind it. Two cosmic forces set on competing with one another, right in our back yard."
She rubs the back of her neck for a moment. Then says, "If I had a means of showing it to you, I would. But transmitting memories is beyond me."

"Just as well, in my experience," Zach says, grimly. "Screwing around with the mind is... messy." He uses that word a lot, it has a broad range if meaning that is probably context dependent. "Regardless - that sounds like bad news bears we don't want to see folks caught between if we can avoid it. But if this Nothing isn't new, that probably takes putting it away for good off the table..." He falls silent, contemplating. "I'm assuming the gist is that eventually they just tire each other out?"

"Something like that, yes," Sandra replies. "Giants in the playground." A pause. "It's been proposed that reawakening Last Days as a place of power might be enough to pacify the both of them-- shut them both up. Put the land back into balance. It's also been proposed that doing away with ours may also be necessary, for the same reason, but that could lead to a completely different kind of disaster."

"Okay," Zach says, nodding and falling silent. He shakes his head. "That's resources I don't have to lend, sadly. So yeah, maybe plucking Mercy out of their hands and seeing if she brings anything useful, and intact, with her is the solid play, I'd figure. Unless you've got a lot more information than you're letting on, I don't see much options."

"That's arguably the trouble with the 'language barrier,'" Sandra replies, "and part of the reason I asked what I did. There *is* more I know, and probably a great deal more I could say-- I'm just putting myself at risk by saying much of any of it, even if the reasons may well be understandable." A pause. "That in mind, I'd ask that you either play dumb with Jack if he ends up bringing up similar information," she says, "or at least attribute what little you've learned to someone else. Assuming the topic ever comes up. I may see the utility of being more transparent, but I'm not always among friends when it comes to that particular viewpoint."
She considers for a moment. Then says, "There is one other thing, though. Something I'll have to look into with someone capable of speaking to spirits, though this one may well be able to speak to me more directly, but-- there's been talk of the city spirit having 'tapped into' the Wheel Builder, at some point. That he caused it to stir, and thus awakened the Eater. There's also been talk of Spiral Dancers - corrupted werewolves - having entered Last Days to--" She pauses. "I'm not sure what they did, exactly. No one is. But they cased the place, apparently.
"It's occurred to me that finding a means of speaking to them might not be a terrible idea. They stand to lose as much as we do if this all goes straight to hell. *That*, depending on what's in your wheelhouse, you may be able to assist with-- especially seeing as I'd very likely be going into the talks alone, more or less."

"Dancers..." Zach's heard this term before, but it's not something he's super famliar with until... "Wait, those are the folks who went all riot-crazy a bit back, yeah?" He continues. "Okay, so you say they're corrupted, which... funny story, there's a larger body politic, if you will. The riots were a cover, a screen to cause enough chaos that folks didn't see the real threat: the play was for places of power, nodes - as you call them. Dragon points, whatever the word you want, sacred places. They pretty much won the lottery with it, too. First time I saw it was in New York but it's been the same story wherever I've been.
"That is, until I came here. Those riots spread faster than I could get west, but here they failed. Thing is, folks like this, the self-damned? They don't give up just because you stiff arm 'em one time. So I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop - and now they're getting mixed up with The Nothing? You don't say. The Old Man is self-damned, too. Folks who like to put such labels on folks would say he's 'corrupted.' So there's one more link between them. They may have cased the place - or they may have received orders or just checked in with an ally."

"That was my thought, yes," Sandra replies, not having seemed too surprised by the bigger picture-- if she is at all. "One way or another, they had an agenda there. Either they're working with an ally, or they're not, and they got spooked. Ran back to where they came from." Beat. "I can see why it might," she says. "A lot of people believe that Spiral Dancers are true believers, but there's a lot of nuance among their ranks. Ultimately, most of them just believe that the fight is over. The end of the world has come and gone. A good number of them see us as wailing children clinging to the skirts of a mother that's long dead, and long gone.
"But the thing about them is that they also believe in living while there's still a life to live," she continues. "The Nothing, though it may technically suit an agenda of ultimate destruction, ultimate erasure, runs afoul of how they'd prefer to handle things. The true end, when everything falls apart, will come, and they're happy to lend it a hand, but they're still sapient creatures, no more interested in dying than any one of us. And certainly no more interested in never having lived at all."
She pauses. Then: "So," she says, "while it's possible we're dealing with true believers-- allies of the old man-- it's equally possible that the Spiral Dancers that ran to Last Days did so in an attempt to do the same thing we're doing, only to be repelled by what they found there. It's not unheard of to have them venture in that direction, anyway. Last Days was *theirs* before it was taken by the survivors of a fallen sept. Which adds to the third possibility: that they really were just casing the place, figuring out what was going on, and their involvement doesn't matter. Still-- I'd like to know which it is."

"Messing around with the self-damned... the uhhh... term, if you like words like 'node,' is 'Nephandi,' not that that word really means much of anything," more eyerolling there, "is a dangerous pasttime for folks who aren't interested in ending their own lives... more or less. The problem with the damned is that their entelechies are no longer their own. You're not really dealing with the person in front of you, you're dealing with their patron. Those patrons? They don't give two shits. Who knows, maybe these dancers are just suckers getting roped along. It's not like a lot of the damned don't start that way.
"But yeah, figuring out how all the players fit into the picture's solidly important and if you'd rather have me along, that's okay. Thing is, though... I got a reputation. I don't know how far it's spread among the damned, or these Dancers? But folks know me. Sometimes that plays my way. Usually it doesn't."

Sandra cants her head slightly. "What sort of reputation would you have among the Spirals, do you think?" she asks. "Did you have any direct dealings with them that might speak 'ill' of you, or are you just a part of periphery rumors?"

Zach shrugs. "I made a name for myself taking dickbags down a peg or two. Especially dickbags with status and rep. I'm a duelist," he says, flatly. "Or I guess I used to be - no one wants in the ring with me anymore. Anyway, some old dirt on me got dug up by some sore losers and long story short... people have a knack for knowing my name riiight about the point I don't want 'em to. But the damned and I kinda go way back. That's kind of the dirt. So yeah, word might get around. There's no way folks don't know I'm in town - I haven't exactly been subtle as I made my way west."

"Well," Sandra says, "either response could be useful, in its own way. It's just a matter of playing it correctly." Beat. "Easier said than done, I know, but I'd still rather walk into a meeting with a wildcard than with no backup whatsoever. Assuming you'd be willing to chance it."

"I'm a duelist," he repeats, smirking. "The safe life ain't my style. So yeah, I can have your back." He gestures back at the experimental gear a fourth time, now. "Besides I owe you one, by my books."
Zach says "And yeah, I should be going to bed soon. :)"

"Fair enough," Sandra replies. "I'll be interested to know what your notes look like now that all of this is concluded. It *feels* like a success-- but I suppose that's part of the reason it's making me uneasy."

"Yeah, it's a qualified success. The real trick is in the repetition, though." Zach shakes his head, "And in fixing stuff more complicated than plants. I need to find someone who can patch up physical objects like that. For the sake of completeness, I also need to try destroying the sample /and/ the thing it's corroding. Not that I particularly want to go that route, but if killing the patient is a way to stop the spread of the ooze? That's.. important." He lifts himself up off the Jeep and goes to close the hood. "That ought to be warm enough," he says. "You want a ride back?"

Sandra appears to be in agreement where it comes to the disposal of both. At the very least, she doesn't see it fit to raise an objection. To his question, she says a polite, "Yes, please. It'd be appreciated." And while there may be some chit-chat on the way back, it's not quite as animated or as thorough as what came before-- and, ultimately, ends with the Philodox being dropped off in a spot that's about as remote as the place they left, her form shifting 'down' to that of a distinctly oversized wolf-- one that offers him a light chuff that can be easily interpreted as a 'goodbye' before turning, and disappearing into dense forest.

[Sandra] :: LOG :: Guinea Pigs