[Monica] :: LOG :: What Did He Say This Time?

[gmlogbox]

Characters: Thane, Monica, Ghost
Location: Greek House - Common Area
Time: 1/6/2017 - Half Moon (Waxing)

Summary: Thane gets a recap of the Hilliard scouting mission. Monica is informed that the effort was largely in vain, but - on the bright side - receives a cure for the resulting ooze infection from Ghost.

Word travels fast. What *should* have been a fairly cut-and-dry reconnaissance mission, consisting of pretty much whoever was willing to put boots on the ground, had gone completely sideways. Monica, the Fury responsible for putting the scouting party together, has been shipped off to the Greek House for containment, and Jeremiah - noted exile and all-around great guy - is dead. So far as anyone knows, the newly minted Fostern may be well on her way towards joining him; no word on whether or not she's received the so-called 'cure' to her illness.
Not that there's any guarantee that a cure will work. Though the severity of her case isn't catastrophic - so far as anyone knows, anyway - it's the worst the sept has seen.
Seeing her, that rings fairly true, all told. Kind of undercuts the sparse, but pleasant decor of the Greek House now that the renovations she's been making to the place are more or less complete. New windows, new doors-- a compact little living area consisting of a couch, a throw rug, and an arm chair (leaving a lot of open, unfurnished space) that's been pushed away from the fireplace (complete with roaring fire) in favor of a cot, a mountain of blankets, and other provisions set up on the coffee table.

And there's the Fury herself, of course, laying on her side and shivering, the woman serving as the epicenter for a thick scent of illness and disinfectant that weigh down even a homid's senses. Bandages snake and crisscross over her neck, arms, torso-- over any bare skin that's easily seen. Her face is a mess, sporting the only wounds left unbandaged, with lesions that appear to be the work of flesh-eating bacteria, septic trails branching off from the jagged edges of the wounds, and carving paths through unearthly pale, sweat-sodden skin.
There's assurances that she's awake-- even assurances that she'd *prefer* to be, regardless of whether or not it's a stretch of consciousness spent with chattering teeth and intermittent quaking. At least she has 'company,' though, in the form of her smartphone playing what sounds like some kind of live recording.

Thane isn't one to usually inflict himself upon any of the tribe's safehouses but this is one of those times. With the half moon's dawning, his duties as Warder are officially over and in the hands of Alicia unchallenged. So the Lord uses his new freedom for yet more business. There's a warning knock at the front door before it's opened after a moment of no one promptly answering. He doesn't, pointedly, step in though and instead takes stock of the interior until he spots the Fury in question. "Monica, still holding up?" The words aren't spoken with any degree of sarcasm, though the typical dryness of his voice can come off that way at times.

The knock isn't registered, either thanks to dozing or simple fatigue. The voice, though--
It takes a moment or two for Monica to turn her head enough to look over her shoulder, and even that looks like a rather painful endeavor. It's made without complaint, however, and when bloodshot eyes come to rest on him, she takes a moment or two to focus, like she doesn't *quite* trust what she's seeing.
Apparently determining that her vision hasn't conjured up the sept Alpha on its own, she makes a hoarse 'mn' sound, and says, "Alpha," in recognition, and as much of a greeting as can be offered. Then comes the hint of a smile, though judging by the smaller lesions on her lips (hell, it looks like even her eyelids got 'scratched up' with it), anything more would be dicey. "As well as I can be." Beat. "I, ah-- I d--" she pauses, clenching her jaw, biting back another wave of shuddering, "I don't know how close you want to get," she says, voice a little more strained by the effort. "I don't know h-- how contagious this is."

"I'm fairly sure I've risked encounters with worse, or experienced similar." Thane remarks as he steps in, shutting the door behind him, and relocates to find a nearby seat to where the Fury lies. "Besides, I sent you down there. I believe not even stopping by would be referred to as 'a dick move' by the kids these days. I'm sorely tempted to level that damned garage except I know that wouldn't actually stop what's going on, but it would certainly be momentarily satisfying."

Another flicker of a smile at the aside-- and a similar hint at the thought of leveling the basement. It's stymied, however-- not by a shudder, but by a sideward glance, and a note of frustration to follow. It passes unexplained.
"Momentarily," she says in agreement, resting her head back on the pillow, the pile of blankets she's pulled over herself seeming to do little except bring on another round of sweating. "But at least-- we got some answers. If you can call 'em that." She pauses. "Got-- contacted by an-- another warper when we were down there," she says, either keen on spitting out what she knows while she's still got the energy, or-- dodging the obvious. Seems more likely it's the former, in this case. "Bri-- might have gotten a recording. Guy's voice only came through th-- the headsets she brought for us."

Thane narrows his eyes at mention of that but there's not even a flicker of surprise on his face. "Let me guess..." He drawls, voice flecked with a weary sort of distaste. "Older man, speaks slowly, likes to ask for trust but never offers any details? If so, he and I.. know one another, more of less. We've had a few conversations, including one there in the garage."

Monica's own brow furrows, a notable frown on her face, though the reflexive move earns a wince just as quickly. "Th-- that's him, yeah," she says softly. "Got us-- got us out of there when the shit hit the fan, at least, but--" She lets out a slow breath. "Yeah. Wasn't what I'd call 'forthcoming.'" She breathes a laugh - short, derisive - and says, "Guess I was right. That-- hearing what he had to say, reporting on it, wasn't-- wasn't the 'end all be all' he seemed to think it was."

"He's a fairly frustrating creature to deal with." Thane remarks with the edges of his mouth threatening a frown. "Unfortunately he's periodically useful. He got me out of the garage once before when I was stuck in there. Unfortunately, it ended up in a trap at the Vault, but he again saw fit to provide me an opening to escape. He asked me before if I would agree to a favor, but being as he refuses details, I declined. What did he say this time?"

"Didn't make any deals, so far as I know," Monica replies. "Just said-- he'd made a vaccine against the 'nothing'-- called it a wound. An infection. Strongly indicated Ghost was that vaccine, but-- said he didn't know how to--" she pauses, this time to think over the wording. "He said he's n-not-- in a position to figure out how t-- how to utilize it," this said over another series of shivers, her hands clutching the sheets hard to curb the worst of it. Seems to help. ...Well. 'Help.' "Said-- 'whatever you plan to do with this infection, you'll need my tool to get close without being infected yourselves.' But that-- that 'sacrificing' her would be an overreaction." She looks at Thane, *dimly* hopeful that maybe that's new, but at the same time: "But we knew that before, right?"

"Essentially." Thane remarks with a scowl. "Last I knew, he was Meddling and something about that led to Ghost, or Ghost as she is now. I'm not sure. The Glass Walkers are likely more familiar with it being as they tend her. Given what little I know about him, I'd caution to treat him as more spirit than man, with all the complexities that goes along with dealing with him. Val was doing testing with Ghost's blood for this anti-Nothing cure. So, he's saying not to just chuck her into that wasteland of what was a caern." And he sounds vaguely disappointed by that.

Monica's eyes close for all of a couple heartbeats. She can try to put up as great a front as she'd like, but it wouldn't be too terribly off the mark to call the answer-- well. Demoralizing. To her credit, she doesn't wallow in it, even if the reaction does touch her voice to some small extent.
"I was wondering about that," she says gently. "About why it was Ghost, and not-- some other random Garou. Why he couldn't w-- work the same feat on someone else." There's a pause. "Val's report, a-about-- about th-- the complete lack of Weaver spirits. The wh-- whole thing about the Gauntlet i-in that parking garage being *gone*... Ghost's practically part-Weaver, herself... right?" She keeps her gaze centered on Thane. "One of the Cyber Dogs."

Thane crosses his arms across his chest with a look of consideration on his face. "More or less. She's not a true Glass Walker, by all accounts, though known by Cockroach. Ronin lite? It's convoluted at best. But, perhaps the Weaver does have something to do with this. If this mage somehow damaged the Weaver's influence, it could explain some of this. The Wyld needs the Weaver to have form, we need the Weaver for functions even like time which is equally broken around this stuff. I lost hours with no explanation, things will stick on loops too. These two forces are in some respects Creation and Entropy themselves, in some fashion."

Monica nods slowly. "It'd make a weird kind of sense, wouldn't it?" she says. "Using-- calcification t- to get this thing under c--" She stops rather suddenly, looking abruptly to one side, as if expecting to see something. There is, of course, nothing there, but-- it doesn't stop her from looking balefully in that direction for a moment or two. "Under control," she finishes distractedly, raising a hand to rub her eyes before she thinks better of it. "Sorry," is muttered under her breath. "I keep--" Beat. "It doesn't matter," she says, then. "Anyway, I, ah-- I don't know what 'utilizing' her would entail. But the Weaver is the only thing about her that sticks out. And the absence of it has been bugging me f-- for a while now."

Thane hitches up a shoulder in a shrug. "...seeing things? Been there. Still do on occasion. We may be strong, but even Garou can suffer some nasty side effects." He's sitting near where the Fury lays on her blanket-mounded cot in the living room space. "Weaver does make some sense, in as much as I understand it. Though now that just makes me concerned we're hunting for a third force to stop these. We'll see what this... rock has to say. It's a sound theory, though. Certainly a new angle I haven't heard anyone bring up."

Ghost is not a particularly loud person by nature, but she doesn't make her approach to the house any secret. Light footsteps can be heard on the pathway outside, followed by a sharp knock at the door.

"I'd be pleased with myself if I didn't feel like I was getting turned inside out," Monica says dryly, affording Thane a faint, lopsided smile, though she's distracted rather suddenly by the knock at the door. And here, he can see why she didn't respond before; she seems to be actively weighing whether or not she actually heard that. Seeming to decide that it's not an aural hallucination go along with the occasional visuals: "Must be Reagan. Sorry." Then, louder-- or, at least, as loud as she can manage: "Door's open."

"It was a knock." Thane confirms to Monica as he rises up out of his seat and moves for the door, which he opens upon arriving there less the person on the other side managed to hear and beat him to it.

Ghost has her hand on the knob, but Thane beats her to actually opening the door. Even before she gets a good look at the Alpha, the woman's expression can best be described as 'stormy', with narrowed eyes and tension quite visible along her jaw and forehead. She might be in homid, but the raised hackles may as well be visible. Nothing about this changes for the better when she comes face to face with Thane, but she doesn't actually say anything yet.

In the position she's in, Monica can't see the door too well, having to rely almost exclusively on Thane's reaction to get a gage for who it is. The fact that said Alpha's expression noticeably takes a turn for the less-than-pleased leads her to ever-so-gingerly shift beneath the blankets, little by little, until she's facing the door, suddenly far more tense than she was a moment ago. Like she's expecting something far worse than a pissed off Metis. "Who is it?" is asked, the forced calm in her tone mitigated by a touch of anxiety.

Ghost steps past Thane once he clears the door. Her shoulders hunch upward, and she looks even less pleased to be inside. Her gaze moves from the Shadow Lord to the Fury, and something narrows further about her eyes. "Heard I was wanted," she says, flatly.

Monica visibly begins to relax a little upon seeing Ghost, but she seems to know better than to be relieved by the Walker's arrival. All told, she actually looks a little confused by it, at first. Doing her best to keep the worst of the shivering under control, now that the brief shot of adrenaline is fading, she says, "Yeah," in a softened tone, that edge of anxiety dimming considerably, even if it's slowly being replaced by concern. "Kind of-- thought I'd already been by to see you by now. Th-- the others didn't--?" Her brow furrows. "Didn't they find you? The other night?"

"I haven't seen you since Moot." Ghost's response is just as flat, and just as unpleasant. "So...no."

Monica goes quiet, keeping her eyes on Ghost for a few long moments, the tension threatening to exacerbate the intermittent shivering returning little by little. "Then I'm not--" Another lengthy pause. "I'm not-- cured," she says. That, too, appears to be weirdly relieving, but-- "--Look, I know--" she begins, doing her best to force the words out in a more even pace, but 'conversational' only works so well, at the moment, "I know you're n-- not my biggest fan right now, but I need your help, and I need it soon."

"Yeah?" Now Ghost doesn't just sound flat, she sounds downright antagonistic. "That's how it goes, doesn't it? It's the only damn reason you people keep me around, after all." She shoots a look toward Thane, then back to Monica. There's a little bit of relenting in her voice when she speaks again, though not much. "What the fuck even happened?"

Monica's jaw tenses, brow furrowing. The look she gives isn't quite as angry as it could be, under the circumstances, but that just might be a fluke of faltering energy. "I lost my balance," she says, simply enough, affording the younger women the truth regardless of the shots fired. "Th-- the exile," she says, that little detail she hadn't gotten to with Thane just yet, "Jeremiah, he-- he wanted b-- wanted badly to come with us, into the parking garage. D-- didn't-- want to wait around, getting past the fifth level. Heard-- voices. Made a grab for my lantern. I--" She pauses. The obvious discomfort does a good job of masking whatever it is that stops her short; either that, or she still has her wits about her, somehow. How "I didn't let go in time," is said, though-- there's clear resistance to giving too many details. "Paid for it. And so did--" she lets out a slow breath. "So did Jeremiah. ...So I hear."

"The parking garage," Ghost echoes. Something twists her expression; a grimace, maybe, and for a moment she glances away from both Fury and Shadow Lord. "...Fine." She yanks down the sleeve of her left arm. "We'll see if this works again. No promises, it's not like I get it any more than you do." She rotates the arm and lifts her right hand, knuckles tight. Something.../something/ bulges between one of those knuckles, then slices neatly through the skin. It's a thin, extremely sharp looking blade, a blade from inside her hand, somehow, that she uses to open a quick, shallow cut along the inside of her left elbow, enough for blood to start pooling up.

Monica's shoulders relax just a little again, though not by much. 'No promises' seems to be something she's already taken to heart, even as she struggles to get herself upright, into at least a sitting position. The shirt she wears is-- drenched, to put it mildly, the tell-tale stains of blood and drainage seeping through bandages and material. Not openly bleeding, but weeping, certainly. Whole process is just painful to watch if it's being watched at all, no matter how good a show she makes of it, and the smell of infection only gets stronger.
The bulk of her attention is on Ghost, however; on the blade that pushes through skin, not as horrified by it as one might expect. And though her gaze flickers from the blade to the young woman's face, she doesn't allow what ever compels her to keep watching to stand in the way of showing some gratitude, much less saying, "I know," in a softened voice, a note of resignation coming through loud and clear. "It's-- it's okay if it doesn't work." If it's too late. "It's enough that you're trying."

Thane had left Ghost to speak freely after an initial and brief greeting. Mention of Jeremiah doesn't get anything but the barely flicker of vague recognition from Thane. Surely he understands the implied trouble of some sort that befell him, but he just doesn't seem to care. He does turn to regard Ghost as she invokes whatever-the-hell-she's-made-of and there's a turning up of one corner of his nostril of distaste. Still he just says nothing.

"You say that," Ghost mutters, almost more to herself than Monica. She makes the cut a little deeper, and then the blade disappears back between two knuckles. Two fingers dip into the pooling blood. Louder, she says, "Hold out your hand."

Monica extends her hand, as asked; uses the other to hold it up by the wrist, in an effort to keep it from shaking. She shows no immediate reaction to the initial comment, save to look from the wound to Ghost's face, then down to those fingers.
Ultimately, its the younger woman's face her gaze shifts back to, and she says a soft, "Hey," looking to at least meet Ghost's gaze. But only for long enough to say: "It's enough for me. Okay?" There's no smile; no intended encouragement; just sincerity. "Got no one to blame but myself if this goes sideways."

"I *am* sitting here." Thane says as he looks between the two of them and then to Ghost. "You've shown no indication you're so stupid or vindictive as to just let a Garou die. I may have no clue what you're doing, but I wouldn't let someone call any retribution on your head just for it not working."

Ghost glances to Monica, and then sidelong to Thane, before looking back to her own bloodied arm and fingers. Her expression settles--tense, guarded, but less obviously bad-tempered. "Okay...it worked like..." The two of them can feel something in her sudden concentration, the sense that she's pulling at her own Gnosis, before she removes her fingers from the wound and takes Monica's hand with hers, smearing her blood over the Fury's palm. For a moment, the space of a blink, the almost-Ronin seems almost shadowed, and her dark eyes look like empty black pools, but it passes so quickly it's not entirely clear whether it happened at all.

(( Monica feels a yank of sorts, not entirely unlike the cold grip that pulled the Garou out of the parking lot, but not the same either, something pulling at her essence, perhaps. There's an unpleasant tingling that starts at where the blood contacts her skin, then throughout her hand, then her arm, then into her chest, and her neck and her head. It's cold and uncomfortable and...and then everything is gone. Her injuries remain, but the lurking shadows, the sounds, the shaking, the feverishness...all of it vanishes almost before she can register what's happening. She feels herself. Tired, in pain, but herself. ))

There's a break in the Fury's expression; her demeanor. A twinge of seldom-seen, honest-to-god dread as those fingers brush against her palm. Hits a crescendo in the space of a heartbeat upon seeing that flickering apparition, a rough gasp drawn in, her hand withdrawing abruptly as if in a delayed reaction to being scalded; as if whatever terrible expectations she had have been confirmed.
It only mounts from there, a spark of panic erupting in the midst of the trembling, her free hand moving to draw along her bandaged arm, tracking-- something. "Shit," she says under her breath. "Shit-- shit shit--" is quick to follow, that hand moving to her chest as her breathing gets quicker, more panicked. "I don't think it's-- I don't--"
She's cut off by an abrupt tremor, clutching the side of the cot as her teeth are grit, bared, her entire body going tense until, finally, a short-- sudden exhale leaves her. Her eyes blink open, and she's just-- staring, rather blankly, at the sheets that cover her. The tremor's gone; her breathing begins to steady, little by little, the certainty that something had gone horribly wrong switching on dime to confusion. And while there's the slightest tremble along the arm that's holding her up, that seems to have more to do with odd positioning than some terrible fever.
Her hand drops back down to her chest; shifts up to one side of her neck, to the point of her pulse. She looks up at Ghost, specifically, as if asking for confirmation that this isn't just another dream.

Thane watches and there is no mistaking the Ahroun's tensions as Monica seems to be suffering some ill effect. It's probably a blessing the moon isn't any larger the way his hands have a deathgrip on the arms of the chair he occupies and the rigid clench of his jaw. Thankfully it passes before he can get any antsier and his eyes shift sharp, quick glances between the two of them. "...did it work? How do you feel, Monica?"

Ghost doesn't really give Monica much to go on by her expression. It's tenser, but a little crumpled; she looks exhausted suddenly, and there's a little bit of unsteadiness to her as she turns away from the Fury, away from the Lord, and half stumbles a few feet away. Her unbloodied hand lifts to her forehead and she closes her eyes. "...Wash your hand before you eat anything. It's poisonous."

The hand against Monica's chest relaxes subtly. She just keeps breathing for a time, occasionally raising her free hand to brush her fingers over her skin, where it's uninjured. She nods loosely first at Thane's first question-- then to Ghost's advice. As for the query that requires actual words: "Better," is said gently; she sounds exhausted. "I don't--" She stops herslf. Opts instead for, "I feel-- better," a little disbelieving. Even sort of looks better, all told; and though the scent in the air is still ripe with infection, it seems-- lessened. She looks up towards Ghost. "What about you?" she says, starting to ease back on the cot. "Are you okay?"

Thane lets go of his white-knuckled grip on the chair and settles back in, though it doesn't appear long until Monica's newfound relief lands her out cold. He does at least lean over to check and be sure she's breathing. "She'd thought perhaps your blood might have some Weaver influence, brings this.. absence of anything back into some form of order. Anyone else touch on that subject?"

Ghost shakes her head slightly, but she does turn back around. "No," she says wearily. "That's a new one." Her jaw tenses for a moment, an almost swallow. "My blood's poisonous. Routinely makes /me/ sick. Not something I'd associate with the Weaver, but fuck if I understand any of this."

"Mm." Thane makes a noise that sounds disappointed at the lack of clear association. "It'd made some sense, best as I know any of it. Lack of Weaver spirits around this, lack of Gauntlet, you being so.. modified. It was a shot in the dark but at least it's a new angle to check into. I figure too much influence of any one of the Triat is never a good thing."

Ghost's lips thin. "My...modifications let me function." Her voice is flat again, although more guarded than before.

Thane lifts his chin ever so bit in acknowledgement of what she says. "We should leave Monica to rest then. I can ask some of the sept healers to come check on her. It was her idea, actually, about the Weaver. I leave that to the Walkers to investigate, though. They're bound to understand the effects more than me if it's worth investigating."

Ghost glances at Monica, and then turns, wordlessly, toward the door. Her step is decidedly heavier than when she entered, and still unsteady. She yanks her sleeve down over the self inflicted injury on her arm as she goes, and stuffs both hands, regardless of bloody fingers, into her pockets.