transCurrents - Keeping memories alive 20th anniversary of Rajani’s assassination

One night in 1983, soon after midnight Rajani woke me up and whispered to me that she had been asked to treat an injured boy from the Iyakkam (movement). For her, this was an act of compassion by a doctor towards her patient. For me it was a political act. I was frozen. I turned back and slept. I was caught up in the agony of belonging to the oppressor and the woman I dearly and unconditionally loved trying to ‘liberate’ her own community by undertaking her bit in the struggle. This whisper and the brief political argument that followed opened cracks in our relationship which grew wider and wider.

………………..

The Tamil democratic struggle needs peoples structures in every sphere of life that would guarantee their rights and freedom and these structures should be strengthened against corrupt politicians and the rule of the gun.

To commemorate Rajani’s life and her contribution to human rights a commemoration meeting will be held on 25th September 2009 at 6.00pm at BMICH in Colombo by the Rajani Thiranagama Commemoration Committee.

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I am posting below a much longer version of an article that is published in Himal Southasian.  The Broken Palmyrah is out of print, but the entire book is on the UTHR(J) website.

Remembering Rajani and Re-Reading The Broken Palmyrah

September this year many will remember Rajani Thiranagama, a feminist, an activist, a Marxist, a scholar, a doctor and a teacher assassinated twenty years ago on September 21st, 1989.  Among the reasons for her assassinations was the publication of that profoundly grounded work, The Broken Palmyrah, which she co-authored with three other academics from the Jaffna University.  While we commemorate the life and work of Rajani at a time when the war has come to an end, in many ways the Palmyrah is still broken.  It is in this context that I return to that inspiring work, which has much to teach us, in particular for those of us belonging to the younger generations of activists after Rajani.  Inspiring, for despite the worst cruelties of war, it carried a message of hope, an analysis of possible ways forward and faith in the resilience of ordinary people.

Co-authored with Rajan Hoole, K. Sritharan and Daya Somasundaram, two mathematicians and a psychiatrist respectively, The Broken Palmyrah was a book written during and following the months of the Indian Peace Keeping Force’s (IPKF) offensive to disarm the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) beginning in October 1987.  It is a work that brought out the horrors of war through the voices of ordinary people.  It is also rich in analysis, and reading it twenty years after it was published, prophetic in the issues facing the Tamil community and the country at large.  It is the kind of work that can only come out of an uncompromising commitment to the people.  A commitment which has over the last two decades been exemplified by Rajani’s two colleagues in the University Teachers for Human Rights (Jaffna) who continued the work underground, and the third colleague who chose to remain in Jaffna for the bulk of the warring years providing an invaluable service to Jaffna society in the field of trauma counselling and psycho-social care.  In describing their approach, Rajani, in a post-script written shortly before her assassination and published posthumously wrote:

“We have now been living under the long shadow of the gun for more than a decade and a half, holding hope against hope for the survival of our children who are dominated by violence from all directions without a purpose or meaning.  But, on the other hand, we also note the glazed faces of people accepting it all with a sense of resignation.  Under these circumstances, to be objective or analytical seems to be a major effort, like trying to do something physical in the midst of a debilitating illness.  Whenever we write we are dogged by this reality, fearing our losing the thread of sanity and the community submerging without resistance into this slime of terror and violence.  The community is bereft of all its human potential.  Every “sane” person is fleeing this burning country – its hospitals have no doctors, its universities no teachers, its crumbled war-torn buildings cannot be rebuilt because there are no engineers or masons or even a labour force, its families are headed by women, and the old, the sick, and the weary die without even the family to mourn or sons to bury the dead.  If our earlier account had to be “plugging a line,” as some would want to put it, it was because it was important for us to arrive at a synthesis in analysis, seek an understanding, find spaces to organise, and revitalise a community that was sinking into a state of resignation.  Objectivity was not solely an academic exercise for us.  Objectivity, the pursuit of truth and the propagation of critical and honest positions, was crucial for the community.  But they could also cost many of us our lives.  Any involvement with them was undertaken only as a survival task.” (Pg. 408)

In looking back at the twenty six years of this horrible war that came to an end in May this year, there are two works that early in this long war stand out as a testament to the tragic predicament that the Tamil community was going to face.  I much like most boys romanticised the armed struggle which had its early rumbling during my childhood in Jaffna.  Both works, which I was fortunate to read in my late teens, had a lasting impact in forming critical questions about Tamil militancy.  The Broken Palmyrah and Rajani’s assassination, a woman whose home neighboured our home in Jaffna, had a tremendous impact on me.  The other major influence was reading Kovinthan’s ‘Pudhiyathooru Ullagam’ (A New World) written on the run in one month in 1984 by dissidents from the Peoples Liberation Organisation of Tamil Eeelam (PLOTE).  This work very early on captured the internal killings, torture and undemocratic character of Tamil militancy, which had absorbed idealistic youth and cruelly spat them out into violence and death.  Kovinthan himself disappeared in the LTTE’s version of the Gulag in the early 1990s.  The authors of The Broken Palmyrah were by 1988 despairing about this turn in Tamil militancy:

“It was now the end of an era. A struggle that had, in its dawn, been fired by several noble ideals, and called forth courage and much sacrifice from young persons irrespective of group, had now reached a point where the community was powerless and voiceless. How long could a military force that claimed to represent them retain any degree of real autonomy with such a weak base?” (Pg. 184)

The tragedy is that the armed struggle led by the LTTE, which by then had clearly consolidated a fascist political culture would continue for another two decades with more and more opportunistic and brutal moves to compensate its weak base, ravaging and destroying the Tamil community.  The Sri Lankan State which was at the root of the conflict through discrimination against the minorities and State-sponsored violence, responded even more brutally in the face of the escalation of violence by the LTTE.  The people bore the brunt of such debilitating violence by the different armed actors.

Rajani and The Broken Palmyrah were part of the bedrock of people and writings that should have alerted the Tamil community to the disastrous direction of the “liberation struggle”.  Indeed, there were hundreds of similar dissenters and writers who were assassinated, disappeared, tortured and destroyed by the violence unleashed from within the Tamil community.  And on a personal but also political note, my uncle and principal of St. John’s College, my school in Jaffna, C. E. Anandarajan, who was an active member of the Citizens Committee, was assassinated by the LTTE in 1985.  Thus for all of us, there were experiences and journalistic writings which alerted us to the disastrous turn in the Tamil community. But it was The Broken Palmyrah that perhaps fully grasped through the voices of ordinary people and its analysis of the political problem, the malaise that had eclipsed the Tamil community and the country.  Its prophetic potential is that twenty years later many of the themes it highlighted from the importance of democratisation, the critique of narrow nationalism, the dangers of militarization, the national question and class struggle, to the concerns of the Muslims and Up-Country Tamils, the cruel use of children in war, to the need for alliances with Sinhala progressives, seem as relevant now as it was twenty years ago.

For those who wrote The Broken Palmyrah, the fate of the LTTE was clear twenty years ago. In Rajani’s words:

“The Tigers’ history, their theoretical vacuum, lack of political creativity, intolerance and fanatical dedication will be the ultimate cause of their own break up.  The legendary Tigers will go to their demise with their legends smeared with the blood and tears of victims of their own misdoings.  A new Tiger will not emerge from their ashes.  Only by breaking with this whole history and its dominant ideology, can a new liberating outlook be born.” (Pg. 367)

Indeed with the demise earlier this year of the LTTE, one is deeply troubled by the support extended by sections of the Tamil community, particularly those affluent sections of the Tamil diaspora who so fanatically supported the LTTE throughout the last twenty years and shut out this wisdom.  The ignorance of those who are still thinking in terms of reviving the LTTE and its political project is even more worrying.

Such perceptive analysis of the LTTE also came out of the authors’ experiences during the heightened moments of devastation of the Sri Lankan Army’s offensive in May and June 1987 called “Operation Liberation” and the Indian Army’s offensive of October and November 1987.  Because of their commitment to the people, they did not miss the cynicism of the LTTE which was all too ready to put civilians at risk by firing from civilian areas including hospitals and other places of refuge, such as the Kokkuvil Hindu College where civilians sought shelter.  The LTTE’s approach was returned in kind, as both the Sri Lankan and Indian armies unleashed untold suffering and violence on the civilian population, by shelling, torturing, firing on and raping women.  Parts of the book read like a diary of the horrors of war sharing the voices of numerous ordinary women and men; the communities paralysed, crippling any healthy dialogue.  It is a diary of the IPKF offensive to disarm the LTTE.  It is a diary that narrates the IPKF debacle from the beginning and the brutality of the “peace keeping” army, which the Tamil community thought would be different in its approach to the people from that of the Sri Lankan army.  It spares no actor.  It is a strong critique of the Eelam Peoples Revolutionary Liberation Front (EPRLF) which strayed from its progressive roots as it aligned with the IPKF in the war against the LTTE, including the forceful recruitment of youth into the ranks of the Tamil National Army during latter part of the IPKF years.  It is a reminder of the very nature of the brutality of war, regardless of which army fights the war and how every armed group standing up to the LTTE and seeing their members and families attacked disastrously adopted the LTTE’s methods.

Rajani’s chapter on the experiences of women during the war of October 1987 titled, “No More Tears Sister” brings the voices of women into a profound analysis of how women, their survival in war and their resistance is inter-twined with class and caste.  Rajani questions the simplistic idea that that the “liberation struggle” was also a process about the liberation of women.  Instead, by questioning and analysing the politics and structures of the armed movements, the broader society and the roles carved out for women it becomes a strong political critique of not only the armed movements and narrow nationalism, but also brings to light the limitations of social movements at that time including the Mothers’ Front.  Rajani is perceptive and grounded in her attempts to both soothe those who suffered from the war and to find out the consequences of the war to be able to distinguish between the different forms of resistance of the middle class and subaltern women against all the armed actors whether it be the Indian army, the Sri Lankan security forces or the Tamil armed groups.  The fear that overshadowed middle class women crippled them from offering any protest or resistance with the LTTE’s public massacre of TELO cadres in May 1986 – she pointed out that subaltern women did far better transforming their sympathy into spontaneous resistance.  Finally, Rajani questions the short-sightedness of the women in Tamil militancy:

“It is tragic that these women’s sections themselves did not make any attempt to grasp their reality; an analysis of the position of women, the crucial social issues confronting them in Tamil society and women’s history, would have enlightened them and cleared the way to laying down the fundamental tasks and priorities. … They confessed to much confusion within the movement regarding the women’s question.  But they ultimately ended the argument with an expression of faith in their leader’s ability to solve all problems.” (Pg. 328)

The four authors were also academics at the Jaffna University at that time and had participated in mobilising both in Jaffna and the entire a country a university teachers’ human rights movement.  It was an exceptional time when the South too was marred by the internal violence of the second JVP rebellion, but the UTHR in the South became paralysed by the debate about whether human rights violations pertained only to the state or included non-state armed groups as well.  The UTHR(Jaffna) on the other hand was clear from the start that abuses by all armed parties must be challenged.  They saw the university as a space that should be open for honest and critical dialogue, as society around them was eclipsed by militarization and manoeuvrings of the armed actors.  Rajani was at the centre of those who spearheaded the opening of the university following the IPKF offensive.  Many of the narratives and voices about the war in the book begin with the university community and expand to the rest of society.  It is through such voices and observations that the book also makes an important contribution to an understanding of trauma and psychological devastation of the communities by the war.  The psychosomatic consequences and social repression have broken society as much if not more than the physical devastation brought by bombs, shells and guns.  It is to those individuals and communities that have remained resilient and kept society going despite the great losses that the Tamil community owes it future.

Their criticism of the IPKF or for that matter any of the other armed actors is not one of rejection but rather of engagement, continuously attempting to expand the democratic space by mobilizing larger and larger sections of the community.  An appendix in the book is a powerful statement by fifty teachers from the Jaffna University signed on October 31st, 1988 in the run up to the Provincial Council elections and as a response to the call of the Indian High Commissioner for all Tamils to participate in the elections.  Sections of that statement are worth quoting at length as it also speaks to the current moment in the North and East where elections are superficially conflated with democratisation:

“What is the reality today?  We know that neither individuals nor community organisations can effectively raise their voices against the many human rights violations that continually take place today.  People live in fear.  They live unsure of their destiny, in terrorised silence – thanks to the acts of omission and commission by the I.P.K.F. and the various armed militant groups.  The run-up to the nominations made the situation worse.  Almost daily, revenge killings are taking place; innocent middle-aged civilians – both men and women – have been amongst the victims.  In many instances the Indian Peace Keeping Force’s complicity is well known.  No one has the means or the courage to protest – mostly in fear of the I.P.K.F. and the dominant militant groups.  In view of such a situation, for India to exhort full participation in what is portrayed as free and fair elections is a parody; especially because India itself is partly responsible for creating such political conditions in the community over the past five years.” (Pg. 447)

It is important to note here that with the IPKF, after its initial offensive, there was space for dissent as with the above initiative of the university teachers, which very quickly disappeared following the IPKF withdrawal.  Rajani herself was assassinated the day after the IPKF’s announcement of withdrawal, and that began another more systematic round of elimination of dissent within the Tamil community by the LTTE.  The statement continues:

“We have to examine not only our relations with the Indian and Sri Lankan states, but also ourselves.  Our obeisance to terror within the community, and our opportunism and lack of principles in the face of many internal killings, have made it easy for external forces to use the same weapons to control us.  In the face of our acquiescence to anti-democratic tendencies within the community, our plea for democracy becomes a meaningless exercise.  Many individuals and young persons who voiced criticism of the political forces have been victimised, driven away, or killed while we looked on.” (Pg. 449)

The Broken Palmyrah does not fail to pay tribute to the many individuals and community leaders that toiled hard with a sense of commitment to the people.  That was all the more important at a time when the LTTE’s perspective was that “the propaganda thrust of the struggle must hinge around the two words ‘Traitor’ and ‘Martyr’”. (Pg. 419)  Among those they mourn are many committed Tamils whose lives were cut short.  Dr. Rajasundaram, the moving force behind Ghandiyam who was arrested under the Prevention of Terrorism Act and massacred during the second Welikade prison massacre in July 1983.  K. Kandaswamy the humanitarian worker and founder secretary of Tamil Refugees Rehabilitation Organisation (TRRO), who was disappeared by the Eelam Revolutionary Organisation of Students (EROS).  St. Johns College Principal and Citizens Committee member C. E. Anandarajan and university student leader Vimaleswaran assassinated by the LTTE.  The list is long and the list is longer when we look back twenty years later.  The despicable label of “traitor” was a sign most of all of the deterioration of Tamil politics.  The book in looking for an inclusive vision of Lanka beyond the myopic politics within the Tamil community, also pays tribute to the many visionary leaders in the South who took up the Tamil question with sincerity.  Four names that are prominent in the book as it mourns their passing, either assassinated or broken by the tragic turn in Lankan politics, and leaving a vacuum in leadership; Vijaya Kumaratunga, Sarath Muttetuwegama, Bishop Lakshman Wickramasinghe and Bishop Leo Nanyakkara.  If there is hope for Lanka it has to be built on the commitment and principles of such leaders as well as less known thousands of individuals who struggled to maintain sanity in a society devastated by war.

In re-reading The Broken Palmyrah, I am struck by its relevance for the debates in Lanka today.  It very early on saw how the broader Tamil community in placing its faith on deliverance by an external actor such as India and not on its own politics was undermining its own aspirations.  It saw so clearly the dangers of narrow Tamil nationalism and Sinhala Buddhist chauvinism as destructive ideologies that reinforced each other.  It captured the arrogance and the hegemonic power of the Tamil elite over the oppressed castes, over the Muslim community, the Up-Country Tamils and the Eastern Tamils.  It saw how fractured the idea of the Tamil “nation” already was, even in its making; it saw the dilemma’s facing the Eastern Tamil youth in their relationship to the Tamil armed movements and questioned even the viability of the North-East merger.  It analysed not only totalitarian and fascist tendencies within the Tamil armed movements, but was conscious of the play of class, caste and patriarchy within these movements.  It saw most of all the problem of the Sri Lankan State and the Sinhala elite that controlled it and used State power and its attendant violence towards the destruction of the entire country.  It attempted to analyse Sri Lanka in the context of global political economy; of colonial, capitalist and imperialist expansion.  It saw how the politics of the minority communities whether it be their historical grievances relating to language policies, issues of land and access to employment and education, or for that matter aspirations for devolution of power, were very much tied to democratisation of the entire country and the need to challenge the authoritarian tendencies of successive ruling regimes.

A snippet of this Leftist analysis and the challenges for the way forward is clear from the following passage:

“Last but not least of our failings was the lack of a viable alternative to counter this narrow nationalism: a third force.  And that brings us to the Left. … The major extra-parliamentary left-wing party was the Communist Party (Peking Wing), which gathered together the most radical and militant elements of the Sri Lankan Left.  Unlike the parliamentary Left, it had a power base amongst certain sections of the oppressed castes in Jaffna where pitched battles against caste oppression had been waged in the mid – 1960s.  The majority of the left-leaning intellectuals amongst Tamils were also with the Communist Party (Peking).  It was also the first left party to build a solid base among the hill country plantation Tamils.  Despite all this, it was not totally immune to Sinhalese chauvinism.  It failed to comprehend the primacy of the national question in the politics of the island and left the fighting for the rights of the Tamils in the hands of the Tamil bourgeois parties.  It had no coherent line linking class struggle with the national question” (Pg. 354 – 356)

Thus even the sections of the Left which took on caste struggles could not adequately address class politics in relation to the national question.  Indeed one of the major challenges at the moment facing the Tamil community, the other minorities and even sections of the South is the process of bringing in class and democratisation into the devolution debate.  Their analysis also went beyond narrow legalistic views of devolution and took on the challenges of democratising society:

“One deeply ingrained habit amongst Tamils is to think that freedoms are best secured by being wrapped up in the law book.  Laws are important.  Good laws can over the years inspire a stabilising social consensus.  But without the restraining influence of a deeply felt social consensus, good laws can be broken with impunity by bad governments.  Thus what is more important than laws to Tamils and to everyone else in this country, is a public conscience that is willing to fight continually to ensure justice for everyone.  We need a more active form of democracy than the public merely electing governments and then going to sleep and leaving the rest to politicians and lawyers.  The laws that ensure fair play may come if trust is established between the several communities that people this island and democracy is re-established.”  (Pg. 406)

That is also the challenge now, which calls for a third force; a democratic force for justice, equality and reconciliation in the post-war era.

Twenty years ago, The Broken Palmyrah, reported on the war like perhaps no other work in Lanka and for that matter competes with some of the most insightful reporting on wars anywhere in the world.  It set out an analysis of the causes and consequences of this brutal war which generations of Lankans will be condemned to endure.  It captured the voices that must be remembered as we mourn those who were decimated by the war and those who are no longer with us.  It has set out the forms of politics for the younger generations that must carry forward the mantle of justice and democratisation, and challenge the continuing repression and authoritarian politics that pervades Lanka’s post-war moment.

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Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and falling, and the relative humidity is 79 percent. The dewpoint is 36 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (71% full).
It is currently 12:04 Pacific Time on Thu Feb 5 2009.

Andy’s Old Fashioned Donuts
 A small quaint donut shop, tastefully done in blue and white. A glass case, showing a variety of fresh donuts stands at the back of the store. Standing behind the glass case, a small old woman, looking to be in her sixties, is busy with customers. A young girl, slightly taller than the old woman and looking to be around sixteen rushes back and forth through a swinging door, bringing out trays of donuts or coffee or other delicious smelling items.
 A sturdy door to the south opens out onto the street.

Contents:
Vagabond

Obvious exits:
Street

It’s too cold out to use the tables outside, so Tim has chosen a small, two-person table by the window as a close second. A flattened white paper bag sits in front of him, sporting a half-eaten French kreuller and an untouched cinnamon roll, and next to that is a well-worn travel tumbler and lid. The fragrant smell coming out of it can be nothing other than chai. He’s sitting with his chin propped in one hand and writing in a small book of Sudoku with the other, using a pen no less.

Ah, how convenient is that two person table? Because as Tim is eating and writing, the young woman from the other day bustles in. She’s wearing different clothing, apart from the black army coat, but it’s all pretty much as well worn and simple as the last pair. She’s also got her backpack with her, a bulgy, heavy duty affair slung over one shoulder. She pauses at the counter to chat with the cashier and presumably order a few tasty pastries.

Tim glances up as the familiar face wanders in, then smiles and leans back so he’s not nearly so hunched up. He waits for her to finish ordering, and in the mean time makes a little more room on the table.

Vagabond chats amiably for a minute or two, and eventually passes over some cash from her pocket and accepts a tray bearing three donuts and a hot steamy cup of, presumably, coffee. She turns and makes her way straight toward Tim, eyebrows arching a little in question as she draws near. “Do you mind if I join?”

“Don’t mind at all,” Tim says, gesturing at the second chair. “Found a place to settle in yet?” He pours out some tea for himself and sips at it absently.

“No apartment,” Vagabond replies, as she sets the tray on the table and seats herself. “Yet.” She looks up, studying Tim’s face–and it’s a far more intent scrutiny than she made the other day–before reaching for the first of her donuts. “But I think maybe today I will look some more.”

Tim looks thoughtful. “Winter quarter should be ending soon, but I’m not sure how much that’d help. I think they’re in until March.” He rubs his chin and suggests, “Maybe there’s those hotels that rent by the week? I used to stay in those when I was new to a city, if I could find one that was cheap without being, you know,” he makes a face, “seedy.”

Vagabond smiles. “Difficult,” she agrees. “But seedy is okay, if I can find no other place. I have dealt with seedy, often.” She takes a bite of donut, and rests her chin on one hand. “Tell me, Tim? Do you know the city well?”

Tim closes the Sudoku book, and stows it and the pen back in a shoulderbag that’s sitting under his chair. As he’s doing this, he replies, “Pretty well, I guess. I’m not from here, and I come and go a lot, so I don’t get as much time really…studying it, the way someone who really lives here does.” He straightens up, and takes a bite of donut.

“I would ask then,” the woman says, “What kind of dangers should be watched for. In San Francisco, there were many things, obviously. American gangs, Tongs, Mafia, all manner of expected crime. I have seen much evidence of gangs here, but I do not recognize their signs.”

“Mmmm, well.” Tim washes down the donut with some chai. “The gangs I only know a little about–I know there’s one group called the Royals. I have a friend who’s more connected to that than I am, so I can ask him for a little 411 on that if you want. As for the rest…the mob activity’s been pretty dead, last I heard, which leaves the ah,” he gives her a significant look, then glances away, “the weird shit.”

Vagabond smiles brightly. She finishes off the donut she is eating, and then leans over to unzip her backpack and rummage around in it. “Oh? What kind of ‘weird shit’ does St. Claire have?” She pulls out a pad of notepaper and a pen, pushing aside her tray to make room. “I am curious, if you or your friend know which gang makes this sign.” She sketches, quickly, a large ‘V’ with a circle around it. “The other day I was walking, and I saw a boy who I think made this sign, and I was curious.”

Tim peers at the sign, looking, of all the things, puzzled. “Well…I know a book that’s from, so I guess it’s–” He stops, and something clearly registers behind his eyes. “Ah. Okay, I think I know who that is, and,” now with wry humor, “I’m not sure I’d call them a gang. More like, these guys who hang around together. Calling them a gang would be suggesting they’re organized.”

A laugh. “Oh, the boy who spoke to me seemed to think he was.” Her eyes sparkle. “Very tough acting, you know? He also talked about his boys. I have seen this sign a few times, many times over other signs. They are new?”

“Young men, and ah boys, *love* to think they’re organized,” Tim drawls, rolling his eyes a little. “Not really new. I think they’ve been around for several months now at least, probably longer. Might just be trying to *get* organized, then, and step up the pace.” He sounds intrigued by that possibility. “Where all did you see it?”

Vagabond gestures with her pen. “North of the park where we met. Other places near there. On walls, covering other gang signs. I think, those older gangs who own those signs, they will not be so happy. Tell me, though. I am more interested in local strangenesses. Legends. What is this that you mentioned, before?”

Tim finishes off the French kreuller and pours himself more tea. “Well. You hear a lot of odd stories.” He grins, and says, “Bear attacks, that’s got to be my absolute favorite. I mean do you see a bear running out into a city like this? Something about an exorcism in the park a while back, I’ve been meaning to read up on that one. And, there was a problem with poachers in the National Park. Should be newspaper articles on all of that.”

Vagabond smiles softly, and folds over the page with the ‘V’ sign on it. She also glances briefly toward the rest of the shop as she slides pen and notepad back into her backpack and zips it up. “You see, I ask because this is a particular interest to me. A hobby.” She looks back up at Tim, and notably, does not actually meet his eyes. Her voice lowers a little. “I am afraid I have been a little evasive. But you understand, I must be careful.”

“Ah–investigating the paranormal and all?” Tim attempts to follow her eyes, but as she avoids his, his expression shifts to take on a bit of extra curiosity. “You’re not talking about, you know, ghosts and people who claim they’re psyhic and shit, are you?” he asks. Like her, he looks askance at the rest of the shop.

The smile remains, but she’s watching him now, and there’s a tiny bit of detectable caution in her otherwise relaxed posture. “Yes, at times. Interesting things. I mention this, you see, because I know that you keep interesting friends. And I know that you, Tim, you also are interesting. And I am wondering, how good of a friend you are to interesting people.”

Nothing about how Tim is sitting in his chair or holding his tea changes, but from one eyeblink to the next, *something* isn’t the same anymore. It might be his expression, or it might be the way he looks at her, though more like it’s both. “Interesting?” he asks with a wry smile. “Are we talking, African interesting, Chinese interesting, or just plain old American interesting?”

“Most certainly all of the above,” the woman replies. “I do not wish to alarm you, Brother, so I do hope that you can relax. And I hope that you can also forgive my lack of manners in proper introductions, but I have heard many unpleasant stories of poor hospitality, and I should very much like to keep my neck safe and in its proper place.”

Tim’s eyebrows bob in rueful acceptance of her point. “Well. Some folks in this city aren’t…known, for their hospitality. Sometimes it’s just a bad rep and sometimes, it’s not.” He narrows his eyes a little, though not in an entirely unfriendly manner, and asks, “Which of my friends did you specifically find interesting?”

Vagabond says, “Ah…that would be telling, I think. I will say that a few of your interesting friends are interesting in the way that you are interesting. And one of them is interesting in a different way, but I do not know what specific way that is. I did not find any of them interesting in a /bad/ way, I should note. I did check.”

<OOC> Tim: Sense Wyrm
<OOC> Vagabond: No higher than you’d expect for this area of the city.

Tim makes a low sound and drinks from his tea, and finally starts pulling apart the cinnamon roll. “Fair enough.” Something goes unsaid for a moment as he looks up at her from the cinnmon roll, and he tacks back to one of her original comments. “I can at least speak for myself in saying I don’t mind new and interesting people in town, and no offense taken on a lack of proper announcements. You never know if the reply’s going to be a welcome mat or a gun in your face these days.” He says this with an air of personal experience.

Vagabond visibly relaxes a little. “Yes, very much so,” she agrees. “As I said, I have heard many unpleasant stories about the interesting people in this part of the world. And I have witnessed some myself.” She reaches for another one of her donuts, and takes a sip of the coffee.

“Same here,” Tim admits, grimacing. “Even from people like myself. Which is kind of depressing, when you think about it.” He sighs a little, and sips at his tea. “I’m not in charge of any of the interesting people around here,” he shakes his head and laughs quietly, “in case that wasn’t obvious, so I can only really speak for myself.” He sobers and goes on, “But I can say I won’t let on to anyone if you don’t want me to. I don’t have a problem with that, since that’s how I work.”

Vagabond smiles, and nods once. “I would prefer it this way, yes, at least for now. I mean no trouble to you or your kind while I am here, and perhaps it is possible that I could offer help as well. But I should like small steps. And I do like privacy.”

Tim offers his tea tumbler lid-cup in a poor-man’s toast. “Privacy is big on my agenda,” he assures her, and takes a sip to seal the deal. “Help is always appreciated, and goes a long way to making people less jumpy. So, however you want to do it. Long as no one steps on anyone’s toes.”

“Agreed,” the woman says. “Then I shall keep my eyes open. I do not specialize in the same things that your people do, but I do have certain areas of use.” She takes up her last donut, and her coffee, and swings the backpack onto her shoulder again. “We shall see each other again, perhaps. It was good to eat with you, Tim.”

Tim sits back in his chair and nods, posture neutral but verging on mildly friendly. “You too. Oh, here.” He digs around in one of his jacket pockets and takes out a business card for a cake shop in San Francisco. Just under the main graphic is an Arizona phone number in purple ink. “My cel number.”

Vagabond brightens as she reaches out to take the card. “Ah! Thank you. You will forgive me I hope, but I do not have such an easy way to keep in touch.”

“Not everyone does,” Tim agrees easily. “But, in case you need someone to vouch for you.” He takes his Sudoku book back out. “Nice to talk to you, Rajani.”

“And you, Tim.” The woman bows her head. “Good day.” And with that, she makes her way, with no hurry, toward the exit of the small shop.

A young woman of obvious Indian descent is just standing up from a table where Tim is also sitting. She has a sugar covered donut and a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, and a considerably filled backpack over one shoulder. In the other hand is a business card, which she’s in the process of pocketing.

Kaz pushes in the door, cheerfulness itself, and hails the old woman with a cheery, “Hey, yo, buskin’ was good t’day, can I have a coupla crullers?” The woman twinkles at her, gets the items, and then leaves her alone. Kaz turns to scan the tables, gives Tim a mock-salute (not really registering the young woman), and finds her own table.

Tim, meanwhile, has pulled out a small book of Sudoku, and a pen to presumably write with. A torn apart cinnamon roll and travel tumbler of fragrant tea sit leaving enough room for someone else to occupy the table. He watches Kaz come in with familiarity, and returns the salute while letting his eyes slide away from her just a little.

Vagabond pauses halfway to the door, watching Kaz idly as she comes in, and turning to watch that salute with some interest. Her tongue touches her lips for a moment, and then her gaze turns back to Tim.

Kaz, cheerfully neglecting Tim (or possibly taking a hint, one never knows), plumps down and finds a book in her coat pocket (after finding some string and a t-shirt). It’s actually a verysmall version of Watchmen.

Tim catches her eyes, glances over at Kaz and back again, then gives a very slight nod. It’s the kind that would be easily missed if you weren’t watching him closely.

Curiosity is a powerful force for Vagabond, it would seem. She hesitates a bit more, studying Kaz, and then she turns and makes her way to the front. Not to the doors, though. Back to the counter, apparently to purchase a few more donuts.

Kaz seems not to have noticed this interaction. Because Watchmen! Fascinating. Also, crullers.

Tim puts the book and pen away once more, then pulls on his bag and takes up the roll and tea tumbler. While Vagabond buys more donuts, he makes his way over to Kaz, stopping so he’s noticeable over the edge of the book, and waits quietly.

Vagabond, like before, pauses to lean over and chat amiably with the lady behind the counter as her order is filled, and once more, she pays in cash, a few wadded bills.

Kaz doesn’t actually notice him for a few moments, until she breaks for a cruller. “Mmmf?” she asks, donut paused halfway to her mouth.

“Ma’am,” Tim says, voice low. “If you have a second, I’ve got a few things we should talk about.” He glances meaningfully over at the woman by the counter. “And, someone you should probably meet.”

Vagabond accepts her donuts (she got three again), and makes her way back towards them. She doesn’t join their table, but she does settle relatively nearby, presumably out of earshot. She sets out the donuts and the coffee again, and then digs a copy of today’s newspaper out of her backpack.

Kaz blinks a little, and looks mournfully at her book. But then she carefully puts it away in her coat, and says, “Sure. Should we go f’a walk, or what?”

“For meeting her, here should be fine. She’s like our friend Alastair–needs a little discretion.” Tim glances around the shop a little, just to take in the other patrons, and to see who might be wandering by outside. “For the rest, we’ll need somewhere private.”

Kaz’s eyebrows tick up, and she says, “Huh.” There’s a short pause, and then she shrugs. “OK, so we have some doughnuts and meander later. She got a name?”

“The one she gave me was Rajani.” Despite how he words it, Tim doesn’t sound like he entirely distrusts that it’s real. He turns and catches Vagabond’s eyes, and nods ever so slightly at Kaz’s table. “Sorry for the interruption,” he adds in a low voice to the Alpha.

Vagabond folds up her paper, takes a sip of her coffee, and ambles over toward their table, pulling her chair as she goes. The backpack is left with her donuts at the other table. “Hello,” she says, with a slight bow of her head toward Kaz. Her words are easy to understand, but her voice has a very obvious accent to it. The accent itself is hard to place. Possibly a mix of Indian and a few other Asian dialects.

Kaz says, “Pssh, I got no issues,” to Tim, and then gives Vagabond a closer look. “Afternoon,” she says, offering a hand. “Have a seat. I’m Kaz. Some folks call me Ears.”

Tim gets himself a chair as well, although he sits a little further away from the table and sips from his tea.

The woman reaches out to give the hand a firm shake. “I have introduced myself as Rajani,” she replies. “Sometimes I go by other names, but they are all as accurate.” She smiles, and it’s a bright expression, tinged faintly with a small amount of wariness.

Kaz’s is firm, but not unpleasantly tough. “Yeah, same. Names are– Well, anyways, I’d go on about that, but this ain’t the time. So are you new in town, or just startin’ to come say hey?”

“New,” Vagabond replies. “I have been here only a short few days. It was enough time to find Tim,” she glances toward him, and then back to Kaz, “and to find that there are many interesting people in town. As I said to him, I hope you may forgive my rudeness in not giving proper introductions. I did not know at first that you were here, and then I am afraid that caution overrides my manners.”

Tim smiles a small, rueful, and private smile at being ‘found’, but says nothing.

“Naw, I’m boring,” with a grin, and then she sobers. “Really, with us, caution only makes sense.” She pokes a cruller with her forefinger, admitting, to the cruller, “We ain’t always the easiest crew to deal with. But yeah–” She looks back up. “I figure time t’take th’ meaasure of stuff makes sense. So– what all’re you around for?”

Vagabond explains, lightly, “We have similar interests, if different methods. I am a…” she pauses. “Tourist? Yes? Of a sort. But I go where I am needed, and that has led me to this place. If you are amenable to my being here, I should like to assist when I can, in my way. If you are not, of course, then I can promise you will not likely see me again.”

Kaz says, “No, yeah, I’m always willin’a have people help out. Although,” she admits, “Me being blunt and way more unsubtle than Tim here, I like t’know at least th’ general descriptor of the person doin’ the helpin’.” There’s a pause, while her regard suddenly sits heavily on Vagabond. “Y’know?”

Vagabond bows her head. “I understand. This is wisdom.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I cannot be detailed here. But I will tell you that we both have the same Mother, you, and I, and Tim, and we have similar goals in the things that we do. I am a little sister, small and inconsequential in comparison. My other sisters and brothers, they have told me many unpleasant stories of your branch of the family, and many of them are very bitter. I am not bitter, but I hope to think that I am cautious.”

Kaz says, entirely willingly, “They got reason to be. Some of the fights had reason, but some… really didn’t. Anger has its place, and the Mother’s anger /also/ has its place, but that… really wasn’t the right use for it. /Anyhow/.” She looks back up, and says something rather quieter, in an interrogative kind of tone.

Vagabond tilts her head, and responds in kind, softly, though probably loud enough for Tim to pick up. “Ah. I appreciate you asking. I am familiar, I think, with that. It is a tool often used where I come from, but I would prefer not to do it just yet.”

Tim looks entirely unphased by the question that is voiced too low for him to hear, and even keeps himself busy watching the other patrons, making sure no one is getting too interested in them.

Kaz just nods. “Makes sense. So, as it stands, you’re someone mysterious, from somewhere mysterious, who’s like us but not, who wants to help regarding something specific you ain’t explained yet. I got that basically right?” (She does not, actually, sound at all irritated by this.)

Vagabond looks rather pleased. “Yes, essentially. Though not necessarily a specific thing. Just a sometimes specific means of helping. Like I said, we share many similar goals and interests.”

Kaz’s regard turns briefly into an almost glare, and then, a moment later, she laughs, the weight of her regard falling off the other woman. “OK, yeah, that works. If it ever comes that I feel you have helped my people’s enemies, I’ll let you know, so you can git outta town before we kick you out, but til then, I welcome you, and your help. You want my phone number or somethin’?”

“I have his,” Vagabond replies, gesturing toward Tim, “But yours would also be very helpful. Your welcome is…” She pauses again, and when she speaks, it’s with a rather considerably amount of feeling behind it, “for that, I am /very/ grateful. And I beg your forgiveness for my manner. It has been a long time since I have spoken with your branch of the family. I forget that you have little love for all of my talk. If you wish actual answers, I would be willing to go somewhere more private, if you would be willing to give me assurances.”

Kaz shakes her head, a lot more relaxed now that she’s given up on her own certitudes. “Nah, he’s got stuff to tell me. I’ll come find you another time and you can be circuitous and I can be blunt and we can be amused at each other. That work?” she asks, as she rummages in her coat pocket and finds (after Watchmen and the t-shirt) her address book.

Vagabond grins, eyes bright. “That would be very nice,” she replies, and she sounds as though she does mean it. “I do not have an address or a phone number, I am afraid, but if you should wish to talk, I think you should go to the park, and I think that you would perhaps not have to wait too long to find me. Evenings and early mornings are best.”

Kaz says, “Check,” as she finds a piece of paper, tears it in half, and writes her phone number on it. “Park’s a nice place.” She hands it over, and then glances at Tim. “You wanna take a walk?”

Vagabond accepts the number, slipping it into the same pocket that she put Tim’s card. “Be well,” she says to them both. Then she picks up her coffee and moves back to her own table, retrieving the donuts and her backpack.

Tim has by now finished his cinnamon roll, and crumples up the wrapper. “Sure.” He stows the tumbler and gives Vagabond a nod that’s somewhat of a bow as she goes.

Kaz nods to Vagabond, in a vaguely solemn manner, and then levers herself to her feet and limps out, grinning a little to the older woman behind the counter as she goes. Once they’re out, she says, conversationally, “I suck at the kinda shit you’re good at.” She sounds, not really regretful, but rueful.

“Not entirely sure I agree, ma’am–she seemed to like your answers good enough, and,” Tim shrugs, “I can afford to care a little less about what their real change of clothes is, since I’m not the one in charge of it all. You’ve got a lot more to keep in mind than I do.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So, ah, first thing. A small…problem’s come up with Sean.”

Kaz shrugs. “I mean the dancin’ around th’ answer part. Anyhow, yeah, it’s workin’ OK.” She, in constrast, starts rummaging in her pocket. “Yeah?” She sounds slightly tired. “What now?”

Tim makes a low sound. “He backed me into a corner about Alastair.” His voice drops considerably when he says the Mage’s name, then picks up as he goes on. “Said he just wanted to converse but, it was pretty much an interrogation front to back. He didn’t say he had me hooked up to the polygraph, but being the kind of guy I am I just assumed he did. I said as little as I could, but, even thick people figure out when you’re evading a question sooner or later.” He grimaces with regret.

Kaz tilts her head slightly. “Huh. I mean, he’s got reason to think there’s mages around– did you hear about the Wildfire stuff? — but he… ain’t really someone I’d tell about Alastair. His sense of discretion ain’t.”

“Definitely ain’t,” Tim echoes, and runs a hand through his hair. He frowns a little. “Wildfire? Is that something to do with the hikers? He said something about that, but I hadn’t heard what was going on. he started going off on how he ‘knows someone’ who just needs a ‘go’ from him to…deal with, whoever was responsible for the Park curtain getting a little heavy back at Christmas.” This obviously confuses the hell out of him even as he says it, and he may even now be trying to make sense out of it.

Kaz narrows her eyes faintly. “Olga,” she translates, “Is frothy about it and thinks Alastair’s bunch did something with it. She ain’t usually so frothy, but mebbe she’s had personal problems in the past. Wildfire,” she begins, finding her Coke, “Yeah, ran into some hikers who some rock guy from the other side said was worldbenders, and to get rid of them in the permanent way, and so they did, except they may have missed one or two, and apparently at least August ain’t sure they was benders at all. So it’s all confusin’ and I wanna talk to Sean some more about it anyways. But so Sean may think the two are related. Which… well, I just know Alastair said explicitly he /wouldn’t/ fuck with the park, and anyway, he wasn’t /here/ then, I think. Didn’t he just move in a month or so ago?”

Tim’s go a little distant as he thinks. “I first met him back in…November. I didn’t know he was a ’shaper then, though.” As they walk, he kicks at a rock on the ground. “And, I’m not sure why it’d be *cleaner* then, instead of–I don’t know, weaker, or tampered with. We could ask him with a polygraph, but it seems kinda bogus.” He sighs at the news about Wildfire. “So, we can expect, what, to have search and rescue crawling around there at some point, looking for them? Or did we get luck and that blew over?”

Kaz grunts. “We ain’t had no one pokin’ around yet. Which kinda supports the notion they was insane as fuck, or imaginary, or unofficial, or whatever.” But then she regards him, as she pops her Coke open while they walk. “Think you should talk to Olga about the cleaner part, since I forgot it, and you’re right, it don’t support what them benders usually do.”

Molly pages: *Ring ring!*

“I don’t know her very well,” Tim admits, “And I can’t imagine the two times Owl thing will help much, but I’ll see if she’ll let me know if she found anything. Heart and Jack and I, we’re no great shakes behind the curta–” His phone chimes merrily from his pocket, and with an apologetic glance he peers at the name. “Hm.” it seems he’ll put the phone back in his pocket, and then he blinks, and slowly asks, “Mind if I take this?”

Kaz admits, “The two times Rat thing ain’t helpin’ my brain much,” but then watches him. At his slow worry, she shakes her head. “Go ‘head,” she says, and gets out her book again.

Long distance to Molly: Tim answers, his voice momentarily audible as he talks to someone else. “This is Tim.”

From afar, Molly sounds rather panicked, even just the breathing he’s met with as he answers the phone. “Tim! Oh god, Tim, it’s here and it looks like Dominic and they’re fighting and I think he’s going to /kill/ him!”

Pack> “*Guys*,” Tim calls out over the link, adrenaline making him sound louder than completely necessary. “It’s after Molly and Dom. The thing–the doppleganger.”

Pack> Jack openly startles, though any reproach he might have had is cut out by Tim’s words. “What? Where?”

You paged Molly with ‘Molly? *Shit*, I’ll be right there, Jack’ll be right there.”

Molly pages: Before the Strider can hang up, there is a relieved sigh, and she breaths out a quick, “Cafe Bistro near The Underground.”

You paged Molly with ‘And, without further ado, Tim hangs up.’.

Tim nods at Kaz and answers, “This is Tim,” in his usual, casual way. That lasts about one second, and he suddenly goes incredibly tense, Rage washing over him. “Molly? *Shit*, I’ll be right there, Jack’ll be right there.” And he hangs up, turning to run towards his bike. “It’s the thing–the one Quentin was talking about, it’s after Cole’s Kin.”

Pack> Jack grunts. “I’ll follow you. Or gimme where it is and I’ll meet you there.”

Pack> “It’s at a cafe, near the Underground, that old club. ‘Cafe Bistro’ or something. I’ve got Ears-rhya with me.” Tim sounds like he’s just a little bit tense.

Kaz blinks and says, “My van’s right over there–” jerking her head half a block forward. “C’mon.”

Kaz and Tim bustle to her van; Kaz takes the time, briefly, to half-cover her rear license plates, and then she’s levering herself in and rattling off, van going just above the general speed of traffic; she’s pushing it, but not actually driving insanely. Vroom.

Pack> Tim manages to keep himself as calm as possible during his drive with Kaz, but it’s not too hard to pick up the steady vibration of anger coming off him.

Heart abandons a productive afternoon of thifting at Goodwill when Tim calls for help over the pack link. He picks up Jack on the way to their packmate. Vroom!

The chair that comes flying at him clips the Walker kin even though he dodges, and that gets him good for a few seconds more. Dominic struggles to follow after, clutching his broken right wrist close as he tries to follow. “Hey pansy! Where you goin’?! Is that all you got?!” He coughs out, spitting saliva and blood from his mouth.

You paged Kaz with ‘Tim’ll tell Kaz that Heart, Quentin, and Jack are on their way too–does she want them to stay outside and fan out, so a) 5 people don’t charge in and b) they can catch it if it flees?’.

Kaz pages: Ja. Mucho.

To an observer, there are actually two Dominics. One, shouting and bleeding and looking generally battered, and another, in different clothing, tearing after a fleeing Molly and holding a gun in a hand that looks…not like hands are meant to actually look. As he runs, the bone that extends from his knuckles in a crude type of ‘blade’ seems to soften and then melt back into his skin. And while Molly has the speed of fear on her side, the /thing/ chasing her is faster. “Who did you call?” he demands, in Dominic’s voice, as he makes a grab for her hair. “Who the fuck did you call?”

Pack> While everyone’s driving, Tim says, “Kaz-rhya wants you three to stay outside and fan out, try to catch it if it runs out. We can’t all pile in there together.”

Pack> Heart, never all that good at speaking over the mindlink, gives forth what is mostly a snarl of assent. The moon grows fat.

Quickly, packmates! To the Owlmobile! A glossy-black hummer rumbling its way down the street is definately something to get out of the way of when you see coming, and that’s what Quentin’s behind the wheel of as he heads for the indicated area. The fedora shades green eyes focused on the road, keeping to the speed limit – barely – and traffic laws just enough to keep from getting pulled over. Well, maybe he ran a red light back there. There wasn’t anybody else at the intersection anyway.

<OOC> Tim: Quick question, are there any patrons gawking in horror or any people on the street going “oh…my…god” or anything?

Pack> Quentin replies curtly, “Roger that. Level of civilian presence?”

<OOC> Sheogorath: Street is clear. There are patrons in the cafe who have, wisely, barricaded themselves inside.

Pack> Tim regretfully answers, “No idea. Molly and Dom, for sure, and she said he wasn’t in good shape.”

<OOC> Tim: And they’re fighting…outside or out back?

<OOC> Sheogorath: Outside, at the outside eating area.

The jerk back when her hair is grabbed is actually quite violent, as she was going at her personal top speed. Molly lets out a cry, eyes welling with tears at the sudden pain there. His question doesn’t get answered, instead she kicks at him as best she can, trying to get him off her.

Pack> “And it looks like Dom, right now,” Tim adds grimly.

Dominic stops in his forward advance only just long enough to find and pick up that piece of broken plate he’d intended to stab his clone with before. And while his next steps might not be entirely graceful, the kin calls up what sneaky cheating bastard tactics he learned doing time in LA’s prison system to run up and shank his double hard as he can using his off-hand.

The fake Dominic grunts as he’s kicked, reeling back just before he lunges forward, wrapping heavy, strong arms around Molly, one of which, unfortunately, is still holding the revolver, which he attempts to plant right upside her temple. “Calm down,” the man pants. “Calm down.” And he actually sounds as though he /is/ trying to reassure her, in some twisted way. In a very level, matter-of-fact voice, he says, “Calm down. Or I’ll blow your brains out.” He does not seem at all aware of the oncoming Walker kin.

Calm… Calm is definitely not what the gun against her temple inspires, but Molly /does/ stop kicking him. She looks back at him, trying so very hard not to start crying. There isn’t any pleading at this point, just a tightening in her jaw as she’s held there.

Dominic slowly creeps up when he’s in view of ‘himself’ holding the gun to Molly’s head. Calm indeed. He reaches for what focus he can muster in his throbbing head and hand, then makes a lunge to slam the plate piece forward and knock the gun arm forward as well. This time, the kin really does risk it all in his most desperate move.

<OOC> Molly: ….D:

<OOC> Tim: x.x

Molly can feel the fake Dominic breathing–it’s still quite heavy–and his hold on her only tightens. There’s a small moment of quiet between them both, but this is punctuated suddenly by Dominic’s actions. The broken plate sinks deep into the imposter’s bicep and the arm itself jerks forward, pulling the gun a few inches away from Molly’s temple. Somehow, somehow, it manages to not go off in the imposter’s tight grip. The thing lets out a cry of pain and sheer, frustrated anger. Rather than turning around, his back arches, and three small, thin spears of bone shoot out of where his spine might be. Two miss. The third slides neatly into Dominic’s side.

The big black tank of a vehicle roars around the corner, screeching to a halt half over the curb. The passengers may or may not have even noticed that, given the suspension on the monster. The driver’s side door is kicked open, and Quentin leaps down in trenchcoat and fedora, reaching into his jacket as he looks down at the chaos around the diner’s outside eating area, eyes narrowing at the scene. Orders are given, but none aloud.

Pack> Quentin says “Alright, you heard Mama K’s orders. Spread out, cut off this bastard’s escape routes… keep to homid, this is already messy as–fuck. We need to stop that thing from getting -inside-, Tim.”

Molly tenses up at the jerk of the gun hand, but as it doesn’t go off, she lets out a sigh that comes out quite strangled given the Fake’s outcry. While she can’t /see/ what’s going on behind him, still, she seems pretty upset at what she’s hearing, and a quite voice starts to beg, again, for Dominic to be left alone. She doesn’t even seem to register the incoming cavalry.

Kaz’s van, meanwhile, clanks to a halt on the other side of the street, down the road a slight piece, and Kaz, who’s now in glabro, hat stuffed firmly over her head, heads directly for the two– three– Kin.

Tim hops out of the van and crosses the street immediately, putting a little distance between himself and Kaz in the process, and looking away from the comotion. He’s moving as quickly as he can without drawing attention to himself.

Heart springs out of Quentin’s tin can o’ doom and moves to a flanking position, cooperating with his pack, moving with a tense feral grace that explains all that needs to be said about the size of the moon. He’s focused intently on the source of the ruckus as he prowls into place.

Pack> Tim says “There’s people inside the cafe–I think they’ve barricaded the doors. It’s got a gun–*shit* and it just fucking stabbed Dom.”

Pack> Tim’s anger level spikes alarmingly. Well, for him.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He’s out of the truck before it even fully stops moving. A sharp glance takes stock of the situation and heads for the shop at a good pace, a hand going back to get ahold of the gun but not pull it out yet; spreading out away from the others, and at an angle away from the street, to cut off any bolting into the shadows.

Dominic’s last bit of victory is short-lived as he feels the small spine insert itself into his side. Vital organs at a questionable state already, the kin stumbles back and away as he clutches where he’d been counterstabbed. Slowly, he sinks to his knees and leans just enough that he braces himself with his good hand on the floor, panting.

Pack> Jack says “Fuckin’ kin, why do they never learn /not/ to try to handle this bullshit by themselves?”

Pack> Heart huffs a growl that might be arguing with Jack, or might be agreeing with him, or might just be an expression of a need to hurt somebody.

Pack> Tim, on the other hand, does send back a growl that’s a disagreement, but he’s more focused on getting over there and can’t put much weight behind it.

Pack> Quentin grunts, “Argue about kin roles later. Monster now.”

Much like the bones in his hand, the three protruding spine ‘blades’ seem to soften and melt back into where they came from, leaving behind three neat holes in the fake Dominic’s jacket. He’s bleeding profusely from the stab wound to his arm, and the plate is, in fact, still stuck in there. His head jerks sharply around, as it seems the street is suddenly swarming with people, and he attempts to twist and drag Molly with him, so that he can at least put his back up against a wall. Kaz gets his attention, being closest, and something unseen but very real seems to pass between them. Whatever it is, the man’s breathing gets heavier, and he pushes the gun against Molly’s head again in answer. “Leave me alone. Who’re you?” His voice is no longer so much menacing as almost plaintive. There are tears in his eyes too, and obvious fear. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I didn’t.”

Quentin keeps to the street as his packmates spread out to the shadows and the sides–moving slowly towards the scene at the diner, keeping one hand on the concealed gun. As the gun comes up to Molly’s head again, and the doppleganger pushes itself against the wall, he stops dead–jaw tensing, just watching the situation as it plays out, ready.

You paged Sheogorath with ‘Sense Wyrm says? (Trynig to make sure the level’s not *higher* than he’s felt it before, so he can guess if there’s more somethings to worry about.)’.

Sheogorath pages: Sense Wyrm says that the Wyrm in the general area is higher than you’d expect. But this might just be because of this guy. It’s not off the charts, but it’s hard to pinpoint.

Pack> Quentin says “Jack. Can you convince the safety to flick itself on?”

Pack> Tim says “”I can’t tell if there’s more shit around here, or if it’s just him–be careful.”

Molly is dragged along, playing the unwilling shield for this lone gunman. Quite unwilling. Her own breathing is heavy as well, almost matching her captor’s. She glances around at the gathered troops, but her gaze seems to fall on Quentin. She, very pointedly, does not look in the direction Dominic last was.

Jack’s gun is pulled out but kept lowered; he, too, pauses at the motion and the words from the gunman, but there’s no trace of sympathy or anything other than stone-cold, dark neutrality. He watches, not a trace of emotion on his features.

Pack> Jack just sounds profoundly irritated. “Not from this far away.”

With the thing’s focus on Kaz, Tim angles over towards Dom–the real Dom, who’s not in good shape anymore–moving slowly and steadily, waiting for any sign he should stop.

Kaz gallops galumphingly toward the two; she looks just the slightest bit distracted, as she angles to come at him down the wall, something heavy perhaps in her hands.

Heart seems to vibrate like a piano string tuned to the key of violence, obviously longing to go do /something/.

Pack> Quentin says “Get closer if you can. We need to neutralize that weapon, bro.”

Pack> Jack says “I’m talkin’ like, not able unless I’m /touching/ it, so yeah.”

Pack> Quentin grunts. “Shit.

Dominic was on his hand and knees, but now is laying on the ground. Still breathing but with his breaths shallow and pained, he cracks an eye open to say in a quiet voice at Tim, “Save her.”

“You got powers too?” the fake Dominic asks, eyes widening. “That’s not–he said–” His gaze swings wildly between them. “Don’t come any closer! /Stop/. I’ll blow the bitch’s brains out all over this wall.” His heavy breathing grows more labored, and he mutters a few things only Molly is close enough to catch. “I’ll let her go. Okay? I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’ll let her go, you guys…you back off. And let me go. Okay? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Quentin drops himself to a slight crouch, as though to show that he’s no longer moving towards the man and the scene–not that his hand comes off the gun buried beneath the trenchcoat’s edge. His jaw tenses in anger, but he keeps silent, just glaring from under his fedora’s shadow.

Pack> Tim says “It’s ordering us to back off or it’ll kill Molly.”

Pack> Quentin says “Then back off. As soon as she’s safe I’ll blow its fucking head off.”

Kaz slows to a stop and angles a glance at Heart. “You ain’t doin’ a real good job of it,” she snarls at Faux Dominic. “Let her /go/.”

“Working on it,” Tim murmurs to Dom, and then he’s ordered to stop and so does. He’s unnaturally still, in fact, with only his eyes moving between the thing and Molly.

Pack> Tim says “Waiting to see what Kaz-rhya wants to do…I think she’s using gibbous brain talking at it.”

Pack> A wave of sudden glee surges from Heart.

Molly looks /more/ worried as the guy mutters within her earshot, not at all reassured by whatever she’s hearing.

Jack doesn’t move one way or the other, and his expression doesn’t change at all.

Heart gets his wish! In less time than it takes to tell, he /flies/ towards the creature, reaching to knock its gun–and, really, all of it, but the gun has priority–away from Molly. His eyes flash with Rage and barely-contained bloodlust.

Dominic meanwhile, just concentrates on staying conscious and not passing out from shock.

You paged Sheogorath with ‘Tim’s going to move to protect Molly or Dom–whoever seems to be in more imminent danger–from the thing flailing or shooting. I guess in Dom’s case that’d be shielding him, but in Molly’s case it might be yanking her clear?’.

Sheogorath pages: Yeah.

“Okay,” the fake Dominic says, in a very wobbly sort of fashion. “Okayokay. Just–” And then, there is Heart. The man doesn’t even seem to see the Garou coming, and before he can do anything, his already injured gun arm is being knocked wide, and he has a face full of angry Gaian. The man shouts–not angry this time, startled and afraid–and the last bullet in the gun goes wide, strikes the side of a building, and then goes spinning along the sidewalk. His grip on Molly is broken too, and as he grapples with Heart, the Ahroun can see the flesh on his face start to bubble and melt.
From afar, Jesse hugs and rubs for a bit.

Tim tenses and as soon as Heart’s moving so is he, grabbing to pull Molly clear of what is about to become a very messy situation.

Jack takes a few rapid steps forward, then, moving to go snag the gun and get it out of the guy’s grip. Yeah, priorities.

Quentin’s gaze lingers upon Kaz for a long moment… and then Heart leaps, and he pushes himself up, the gun in his hand swept up from its holster and the safety clicked off in the same motion. He doesn’t fire, though, not yet, eyes narrowing as he sights at the struggle between Gaian and… melting… man. “Hey! STUART!”

Pack> Quentin growls, “Give me a shot, Heart.”

Pack> Tim says, with obvious disgust, “I don’t know if he needs to, the damned thing’s–melting.”

Pack> Quentin says “Could be how he shifts.”

Molly stays as still as possible as Heart rushes in, bracing for impact, as it were, but also trying to not get in his way. Tim finds it all too easy to pull her away, and she sort of collapses against the Strider, using his shoulder to cry on.

Pack> Heart ’s snarling and growling seems to indicate that he’s not moving because he thinks the now-melty man is going to get away–however Quentin should shoot through him if he wants.

Kaz’s glance, as she leans forward, slides to Quentin briefly. And then she waits, assessing the situation, radiating unhappiness.

Heart surges into glabro as he struggles furiously with his now much-gooier opponent, slashing and snarling and going for all the weak points–face, throat–with a buzzsaw will.

Dominic gradually lies down on the floor of the cafe, despite the commotion going on.

Heart’s transformation seems to panic the strange man more than anything, and he flails uselessly at the far more experienced combatant for a few moments. “LIAR!” Whatever that means, the man follows it with a groan. Several things happen at once. His face seems to reform into the handsome blond man that he wore earlier, perfect in every way, right down to the sparkling green eyes and perfectly in place hair. And then shards of bone erupt from his chest, sinking into Heart, while his hands warp and melt and twist into rough flesh and bone blades of their own, and stab wildly. It’s the call of ‘Stuart’ that distracts him. That perfectly formed face whips to look toward Quentin, eyebrows drawing together.

Pack> Tim sounds pretty worried as he says, into the comotion, “Dom’s in bad shape.”

The gun is entirely forgotten, and Jack gets it away from him without a fight at all, indeed, without him noticing he no longer has it.

Sheogorath pages: That face is VERY familiar to you, and it only takes a second to realize why: the face you and Jesse formed out of those magazine pictures roughly matches this one, though this one, of course, is all one skin tone, and somehow more idealized even than that patchwork image.

“Gotcha,” Quentin hisses under his breath as the blonde man’s head whips around; his finger tightening on the trigger as he takes the shot during the man’s startled moment. His grip steady, hands still, as his favored weapon bucks in his hand with a sharp report, brought back down to fire again.

Tim moves Molly over towards Dom, or rather tries to get her safely behind him and over with Dom, telling her, “Get some pressure on his injuries,” and then he turns back to facer the thing. Seeing it transform again, he blinks suddenly, and as that perfect face confirms something he snarls viciously.

Pack> Quentin says “Damn. That’s not Vandervelm.”

Pack> Tim says “It might be,” Tim says around his own furious snarling. “I’ll get you guys all up to speed as soon as we’re done here.”

Pack> Quentin says “Roger that.”

Jack gets the gun loose and, instead of getting into the already messy fray, he takes a step or two back, rolling the gun in his hand (well, now one gun in each hand) and letting his two packmates deal with it, though he looks all sorts of annoyed.

Molly jumps a little at the gunfire from Quentin, but she lets Tim move her about until she’s at Dominic’s side. She kneels down next to him, pulling off her outer layer to use to press against his puncture wound. She seems to be whispering to the other kin while the action goes on around them.

From afar, to (Quentin, Tim): Kaz says, via Mindspeak, “I’m gonna go make sure we ain’t got no one who’s watchin’ alla this shit or somethin’. I’ll catch up with you guys later. Tim, lemme toss you my keys.”

You paged (Kaz, Quentin) with ‘Gotcha, Tim replies.’.

Heart’s embattled form, lanced by bones, bursts into dark grey fur and massive muscles and white gleaming fangs. ~No–you–DIDN’T~ and those huge claws come for the man whose beauty is the thinnest veil over his true, gooey self.

Kaz slides over towards Tim and the two Kin, expression briefly abstract. She tosses the Strider her keys and then retreats towards the store itself, watching around warily before disappearing around a corner.

Dominic’s bloodied and battered head cranes at the sound of Molly’s voice. A rather wry and dry grin works its way into his pained grimace. “Just remember, everyone in Texas owns a gun… Gracie Lou,” he says in a mild amusement. A wince follows along with a groan of pain before the kin, already wavering on consciousness, exhales slowly and relaxes from the tense curl he’d been wrapped up in.

The next events come almost in slow motion. Quentin’s bullet causes the man’s forehead to bloom, a perfectly macabre flower of bone and skull and possibly a little brain just a little above the left eye of that perfect, beautiful face. And then Heart’s claws slice into the man, tearing with almost absurd ease, opening his chest wide even as the ribs melt back into their respective places–mostly. The hands too seem to waver and half reform in the manner that hands should be, but again only partly. Molly, Tim, and Dominic are showered with little bits of gore even as the man collapses under Heart’s ministrations. He’s dead long before he hits the ground.

Pack> Tim says “Heart, *Dom*.”

From afar, Kaz psst, stick him in the van.

You paged Kaz with ‘Yeah, just need help, Tim’s not strong enough to carry him and Heart can le heal.’.

Long distance to Kaz: Tim stuffs everyone in the van! ;D

Tim catches the keys easily and keeps watching Heart and the thing, backing over towards Molly and Dom with his teeth bared in disgust as the thing is shot and then torn to pieces.

Kaz pages: Actually, if you want, you can just puppet Kaz doing it.

Kaz pages: (And then going to do veil-helpy stuff afterwards.)

You paged Kaz with ‘Sounds good, actually I am gonna have Heart puppet me, so we can together be puppeted. c.c’.

<OOC> Tim: I need to scoot for a bit here, but I will be back (although I’m sure you’ll all be done). So, I am gonna hand off puppeting myself, and sort of by proxy Kaz and her van, to Heart.

You paged Heart with ‘Tim basically wants Heart and Kaz to get Dom the fuck in the van and healed ASAP.

“Eat that, you cannibalistic motherfucker…” The gun’s uncocked, though the safety’s left on as Quentin brushes back the edge of his trenchcoat and reholsters it. As it resettles, he drops into a short jog towards the eating area, voice raising, “We need to get the fuck out of here before the cops do. Delirium should keep the witnesses confused–best we can do right now. Get Dom and Molly mobile and move–somebody grab what’s left of that fucker for study.”

Jack doesn’t grimace at all from the gore and blood, nor do his features change at all as the creature dies. He shoves the gun back into place and seperates himself a little from both kin and other garou, casting a glance to both Dominic and Molly to see that Tim has that under control. Not a word is said, and he just looks ragey and pissed.

Heart drops the ruined corpse with a strangled sob, whether cursing the flesh-changer for dying too easily or with regret over what he’s done is a mystery. His great grey head lifts, ears cupping to hear something that nobody else can, and then he limps to Dominic, Molly and Tim. He rests a giant hand on Dominic. ~Still there, little brother. Gaia’s love will help you.~ So saying, he summons his gift of Gaia’s healing touch.

Pack> Jack’s ‘voice’ is dead even, calm, and with an edge that says that’s a tad forced. “Heart. City. Shift down.” It’s not an order so much as a dark reminder, but boy the half-moon seems annoyed – though whether it’s just from tension or something else isn’t clear.

“Oh, geezus. Dominic,” Molly says, not seeming as amused by his words as he is. She has to pause a moment as that gore hit them, and she closes her eyes, as if trying to dismiss it from her mind for the moment. “Stay with me, okay?” She eventually says to the other kin. “Dominic? Stay awake.” She looks over toward Heart as he approaches, and while she doesn’t recognize the words, she seems to relax at the action all the same. She even reaches over to squeeze the Coggie’s arm appreciatively before she moves to stand again.

Dominic remains unaware of the going ons around him, with the mild concussion and loss of blood keeping him down, if still. The small but lethal stab wound from the spinal spike, however, goes away under the ministration of Heart’s healing gift, and there is a positive reaction as the Walker kin shudders to wakefulness. Groggy, but awake now, he groans again.

Pack> Heart grunts back, “Delerium. Van.”

Heart scoops Dominic up, carefully, while Tim puts an arm around Molly’s shoulders and they all get to Kaz’s van and safely out of sight, where he can shift into something less obvious that won’t make those stab wounds he himself bears cripple him.

“We got you, Molly, Dom…” Quentin steps over a fallen table, pausing near to where the kin are being tended by his pack-brother; one hand lifting to briefly grip Heart’s shoulder… well, upper arm, really, he’s pretty big right now… before glancing over the scene with a jaded lack of disgust or horror at the remnants of the monster. A slight grunt, “–okay, it pretty much went back to normal. We can leave it for the cops. Let’s scatter and regroup.”

Jack tenses at something or another, jaw setting, but he pauses to look back toward the body. “It ain’t normal enough,” he says, flatly, darkly. “It just got shredded by a fuckin’ crinos.” That’s growled out in an annoyed fashion, and he just says, “We need t’get it dealt with.”

Molly leans over to give Tim a kiss on the cheek when his arm moves around her, but she moves from his side to step over and take one of Quentin’s hands for a moment. There is a moment’s pause before she looks up at him, splattered with gore as she is, letting out a breath. “Thank you. I… Your whole pack.” Words apparently failing, she leans in to give his cheek a kiss, too, before she steps away to fall in step with Heart and Tim, heading away from the area.

Pack> Heart says “(bundle it into the hummer? you walkers have tarps and stuff for bodies, right? )”

Dominic grimaces again as it appears his wrist remains broken. The faint sound of his voice utters out a slow, incoherent mumbling.

Quentin manages to quirk a faint smile back to Molly, his head tipping a bit to the kiss–and then he turns, offering, “Talk later. It’s what we do, Molly–van, we’ll take the hummer. An’, shit, good point, Jack.” He drops down to a crouch beside the… remains, hauling the majority of the body up into his arms, staining the entire front of his coat as he heads back towards the hummer with a grimace, “Get anythin’ I can’t.”

After doing a once-over for any Veil-breachy bits, Jack heads back toward the vehicle with Quentin. He doesn’t speak or look back beyond what was already said.

Heart gets Tim and the kin into the van. Tim vrooms off, and Heart drops back to homid in order to help get the body cleared as fast as possible, then joins his packmates in the hummer with the sticky parts.