gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG :: I Don't Fucking Know (Reply)

Night.
The first thing that hits one's senses upon arrival is scent. Pan-seared meat, to be specific; marbled venison, judging by the savory notes that come with it. Nothing too fancy like spices and the like, but anyone with an empty stomach or at least a healthy appetite isn't likely to argue over specifics.
The "cook" is seated at the table, two notebooks open to either side of a chart that may or may not look familiar, depending on whether or not Ghost has been up to the Sept Compound, of late. There's some more handwritten notes jotted down around the edges, a straight-edge nearby so ruled lines can be penciled in to keep things tidy.
Beyond the Philodox doing a phenomenal impression of a grad student, there's a bottle of gin and some tonic on the counter; a cooling plate of cooked meat, as expected; a dish and usual utinsels soaking in the skillet used to cook in the first place, and some icewater. Seems she's planning on camping here for a while.

As it happens, Ghost has not been up to the Sept Compound recently. In fact, she hasn't been seen around Edgewood either. Nor has her scent been in either of these places, or the Bawn in general. Or the Caern. It's only tonight, as the front door opens, and one hand slips around the edge of it, followed by the haggard-looking rest of her, that the Ragabash is finally showing her face again. She looks tired and rumpled, as though she could use a good night's sleep and a decent change of clothes in equal measure. For all that, however, her eyes are alert, and her attention clearly goes toward the kitchen as she shuts the door, alert to the smells.

Sandra glances upwards once towards the door leading out to the kitchen proper, her pen not yet set down. "There's food on the counter," she calls, not seeming to think anything of the arrival without a visual frame of reference-- and likely only announcing herself to prevent startling anyone. "Feel free to help yourself."

Ghost eyes the door she just passed through for a moment, but she turns away from it and heads for the kitchen at a slow, cautious walk. Her footsteps are naturally quiet, but she's not being deliberately so, and so she can be heard before she half slinks, half pokes her head around the doorway to the kitchen to eye its contents in turn.

"You can probably heat them up in the oven," Sandra continues once she hears footsteps. "I can't imagine it'd take too--" And that's, apparently, when her peripheral vision decides to alert her to the identity of the newcomer. Her head raises, and one look at the younger woman gets a noticeable raise in her brows. "Ghost." Pencils down. "I was starting to wonder where you'd run off to." A pause; another assessment, a faint furrow in her brow to follow. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Ghost's shoulders hunch a little toward her ears, although she seems to catch herself doing that, because the gesture doesn't last long. She doesn't come any further into the kitchen. "I've been around." Her gaze flicks to the meat, then the charts, although her eyes don't linger there for long.

"Forgive me for saying," Sandra says, straightening a little more, but not yet raising to her feet, "but 'fine' seems generous, and 'around' is a vast overstatement. Last I'd heard, you went to speak to the mage, and that was almost a month ago." And by the sound of it, she's been checking up. For whatever reason. Might have to do with the mess on the table.

Ghost eyes Sandra now, and the vague frown she's wearing gets a little more pronounced. "I'm fine," she insists, with a tinge of irritability. "I went to see him, then I left, and I've been around." A beat. "Not here, just..." She makes a vague gesture. "/Around/."

There's a slight shrug to come of the initial response, Sandra not seeming inclined to press the issue beyond that. Save to say: "He said there was an attack. One of the echoes." Beat. "Given how you responded to them before, it seemed a fair question." A brief pause follows; then: "Nonetheless-- if you want some food, the offer's still open."

"It didn't attack," Ghost says, although as she speaks, her gaze seems to drift away from Sandra. Away from the food as well, as it seems to center somewhere above, around the cupboards. "It just hung around for a while, and then left." One shoulder hitches. "Thanks, but I'm not really hungry."

It's only for a moment that Sandra catches herself looking in the same direction before she turns her attention back to Ghost, that brow still arched in question. She doesn't press the issue of food, instead opting for, "Brings-the-Pack said it spoke." Beat. "Though mimicked might be a better word for it. And as I recall, you two were attempting to get a better handle on your connection to Hanford, at the time." She gives the younger woman another once-over, then says, "I have some questions about that, myself, if you have time for them. Salem, and another friend of yours-- Zach? Have been urging me to speak to you about it. Among others, actually, but that's a separate matter-- and not one I'm sure I agree with, entirely."

Ghost draws her gaze away from the cupboards, back to Sandra. It's a little sharp, perhaps unintentionally so. Her jaw briefly clenches. "What questions?" she asks, and there's clear exasperation in her voice. "Because I can already tell you, I don't /fucking know/."

For all that this is Sandra's moon, one would be hard pressed to tell with the configuration they're in now. "You know your lived experience," she says, keeping her voice even; its usual neutral, though softened. "I'm not asking you for anything more than that. I'm just trying to piece together what information we have, and, unfortunately for you, you're a part of that." A pause. "If it helps, you can ask me whatever questions you like to make it an even trade. I just can't promise that the answers will be in any way interesting to you."

Ghost's nostrils flare. She jerks one shoulder forward, and looks to the opposite side, lips pressing together. "Just ask," she says. The irritation is thick and obvious, and doesn't seem likely to fade.

Sandra seems to be taking the 'fair enough' approach to this, either taking the irritation as an affront, or a reason to cease and desist. "The Hanford mage," she says, to begin with. "Have you ever interacted with him? Or were you only made aware of his involvement recently?"

"No," Ghost says, and then, "Yes. I didn't know about him until other people started talking about him existing. Not until Brings-the-Pack brought him up, I think. I've never been to Hanford. I've never even been near Hanford."

Sandra jots something down in the notebook; looks like some kind of shorthand. "The black mage has made it fairly clear throughout the years that it doesn't matter how near or far you happen to be from the place, so long as you interest him," she says, not seeming to find that all that comforting, "and I've got the sneaking suspicion that he was interested in your long before you were born." A pause. "And this is where it veers towards the more personal, so I'll apologize ahead of time, but-- I'd been hearing that your parentage was that of a Spiral Dancer and a Glass Walker. One of the Cyber Dogs. Is that correct?" There's no judgment in the question, though that may not necessarily mean anything charitable.

"No." This time, however, despite the more personal question, Ghost actually seems to loosen up just a little bit, and she's quick with the correction. "Both Dancers, as far as I know." She looks back to Sandra. "My family found me after killing a Dancer pack that was holed up in an old tenement. I was very young. Presumably, my parents were one of those."

Sandra's brows raise. Seems there's more intrigue than recoil, another note jotted down in the meantime; more illegible shorthand. "And the blood disorder," she says. "Was that present when your family took you in?"

Ghost responds with a single nod. "Poison blood? I've always had it."

"And this is where I have to get a bit indelicate again, so I'll apologize ahead of time," Sandra says. "Is that your only breed affliction?"

Ghost crosses her arms and leans back a little against the doorway. "No," she says. "My bones break. It goes along with the blood, or...that's what Elliot thought. He thought maybe the blood weakened them, like how it makes the rest of me sick sometimes. He wasn't sure. But they break if you put any pressure on them. My bones, my teeth, my claws. Any pressure at all."

"Elliott," Sandra repeats. "One of the Cyber Dogs? Or someone here?"

"Cyber Dogs," Ghost says. She doesn't say anything else.

Sandra doesn't press for more, either, instead jotting down another couple things in the notebook. "So, the Cyber Dogs took you in-- from what I'd heard from--" a brief pause, "from what I'd heard," she continues, "your implants are what keep you from being harmed by the poison in your bloodstream. So, you were raised by these people-- treated by them, consider them family." Beat. "Did something change?" she asks. "Something that drove you away? Or did something happen to them?"

Ghost gives the notebook a brief, suspicious glance. "They keep my bones from breaking," she clarifies. "I still get sick from my blood, sometimes." Her lips tighten. "My family is dead." This is said in a flatter tone. "They died years ago. Brings-the-Pack thinks those...whatevers, killed them, but I didn't see what happened. I just got out. We went back there a while ago to look the place over, some of those things were still around."

It really is illegible gibberish, so far as anyone who's looking at it is concerned. Some kind of self-taught shorthand, if for some reason Ghost is at all familiar with a more traditional method, but it seems to be getting thoughts down at least semi-verbatim, given the rate she's writing. Whatever they translate to later, one would hope it's not what looks, essentially, like the scrawlings of a stroke victim.
"I'm sorry," she says, "just to clarify: when you say you just got out, do you mean you retreated the moment the attack happened, or had you already left-- wherever it was you all were living when the attack hit?" Beat. "And what all did you find when you returned, if you don't mind me asking? Beyond the echoes, that is."

Ghost's voice tightens. "I woke up. Something was wrong. Everything was quiet. Got out of my room and felt my pack totem die. I don't /know/ what happened. I got out of the bunker, Elliott was there, in homid, chest bleeding everywhere. He just kept telling me to run, and I couldn't get him to shift. He wouldn't shift." She stops for a moment. "I never went back in." She waves a hand, suddenly. "I mind. We found bodies. If you want details you can talk to Salem, or Brings-the-Pack, I think he was watching. Or Ciuraq, if you can find her. There were just bodies, okay? Nobody even fought."

Sandra nods; doesn't seem inclined to push the issue, another short note written down. The pen goes down with it, and she allows for a beat or two of silence.
"Before I continue," she says, "there's something I've been meaning to ask, as the line of questioning is liable to just feel more invasive, from here on out." She looks up at Ghost. "How much involvement do you want to have in all of this? In fixing it?" It's a bluntly stated question; no apparent strings attached.

Ghost's nose wrinkles. "Does it matter?" she asks. "I'm dragged in. People are just going to keep asking questions until whatever the fuck is going on gets figured out, and then either I'm useful or I'm not."

"And yet," Sandra replies, "at the moment, you're the last person I've asked out of a decidedly long list. We've already compiled plenty of information without your assistance. What you can add *could* prove to be invaluable, or it might not." Beat. "Your blood is curative, yes, but we can't mass produce it into a vaccine, even if 'vaccine' is the one hint we have to go on, provided by a man who clearly has his own agenda in mind. You being inextricably part of that agenda, one that neither I, nor the ranking Philodox of this sept seem to think is worth catering to." A pause. "And speaking frankly: whether or not he shows it, he's made it clear to even a new arrival that what you want matters a great deal to him, and, like it or not, his word carries some weight around here. You have people on your side, willing to support you. So-- given the option, and given that you appear to *have* the option, in the here and now: what do you want to do with the time you have here?"

Ghost exhales heavily; most of it seems to go through her nose, though a fair amount comes out her still firmly pressed lips. Her eyes remain faintly narrowed. "I don't know what I can do. I don't know what the fuck vaccine is supposed to mean here. I don't understand this shit, and thinking about it messes me up. I can't even answer your question, because I don't /know/. The only thing I know is that for some fucking unknown reason, that fucking place has a hold on me and won't let go."

"So wrapped up in the situation you can't even imagine any wants outside of it," Sandra says, something that should be a question, but comes out more like a statement. "What about Riting?" she asks. "What about becoming a part of the community? What about seizing some kind of agency-- for yourself, and for your future? Have none of those possibilities crossed your mind?"

"Riting?" Ghost echoes, and for a moment she just stares at Sandra blankly. This is followed by a tight shake of her head as she leans off of the doorway. "Of course I've thought about that. There doesn't seem to be any point in moving on any of it right now though, does there? I don't know where /this/ is leading to. I really didn't know when Thane was in charge."

"Why is it pointless?" Sandra replies, brow furrowed. "You've helped us already. You've saved a number of people in this sept from being eaten alive by the disease these-- things, these 'echoes' inflict on them. You've seen enough, done enough, and proven your worth more than any Cub is ever asked to. And, more importantly, you're Garou, no matter where you came from." She pauses-- then, "You have as much right as any of us to take control of your life, on your terms-- and whether or not you had a choice in the matter, you're a part of this fight. Why *not* face it as part of the sept? An actual part of it. Not as a tool, or a throw-away, or a 'vaccine.'"

"I'm not a cub," Ghost snaps. Both shoulders hitch, although the motion stops there, and after a moment her shoulders lower. "...Although I guess I am, to the Nation. Whatever. Look, I just...I'm tired. Did you have other questions? I don't really have the energy to go over this one tonight."

"I do, yes," Sandra replies, tapping the pen against her notes. "But," she says, dropping the pen entirely, "they can wait until tomorrow," the Philodox raising to her feet to get a glass from the cupboard. "And for the record," she says, looking over her shoulder at Ghost, "or, at least, for what it's worth: 'Cub' is better than 'Ronin.' One implies forward movement; the other doesn't. If I meant to insult you, I would have chosen the latter."

"I guess that's a..." Ghost suddenly sounds very weary, "cultural difference." The words don't sound quite right, and she doesn't seem to think they do either, judging by her expression, but she lets them stand. "I'm going to go lie down." She pushes off the door frame again, but this time, it's to go through it, and head for the stairs.

"Sleep well," is offered through the open door, with just the light clink of ice hitting an empty glass to punctuate it.

[Sandra] :: LOG :: I Don't Fucking Know

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