1-22-2015: Dangerous Coincidence
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Date: 01/22/2015 Time: 17:46 EST |
The CYC was obviously a school. There's a front info desk, though, with a guy manning it; he has a list for who's admitted. They go through the gym, into a back hall; at one end there's a gathering of people. Lockers line one side of this wide hallway, which runs the width of the gymnasium. Two hallways branch off from one end of the room, each separated from the open space here by two sets of heavy steel doors. One leads to a hallway that runs the length of the gymnasium while the other leads to a set of former classrooms that have been converted for use as dormitory rooms. At the opposite end is what appears to be a lounge area, laid out in front of what was doubtless at one time a snack bar servicing high school basketball games. The lounge is a strange space nestled in the hallway's dead end. It sports furniture in a mixture of well-worn and brand new - two couches, three recliners, a large flat-screen television and a bookshelf that holds paperbacks, a stereo, a marble bust of an imposing looking woman and an eclectic assortment of movies on dvd and Blu-Ray. The snack bar is left open nearby, inviting visitors to take advantage of the soda machine behind the counter or help themselves to any of the several snacks that are left out within easy reach. This hallway, closest to the center's maintenance area, is chilly even on the hottest days of summer. Nor does winter bring a respite - the back hall is colder then. The twin chemical smells of fresh paint and industrial adhesive haunt this private space, a bothersome testament to the work that has been done to restore the building. |
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Cast: | |
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Maya Wholesome, every line singing with life and warmth and openness: the kind of beauty this young woman possesses defies the perfect-model ideal. Instead, she's the girl next door, the one whose attractiveness comes from inner self and personality as well as outward beauty. Ivory complexion, strong bones, and a certain set to her features proclaim ancestry that's some mix of European with a different genetic strain. A lively warmth usually shines in her eyes--eyes of a peculiar, changeable clay-blue, sometimes touched with more green or aqua, sometimes appearing almost the grey of looming thunderclouds. Usually they're the rich turquoise of the Caribbean. Her mouth is generous, a little too wide perhaps, with a bee-stung fullness to her lips that isn't extreme enough to be artificial. Chestnut hair with subtle warm highlights frames her face, an angled cut that's butch-short at the nape of her neck and the sides, left just long enough on top for that mussed bedhead look. A single narrow, tiny braid hangs down longer from her right temple, decorated with beads, charms, and a brown flight feather with paler stripes.
The young woman's somewhere in her early twenties, with the defined muscles of someone very active and athletic. Her body, though, is a little too curvaceous to suit the current media tastes--an hourglass shape that's worthy of a war-era pinup girl. Her height is roughly average, 5'5" or so, and she almost never wears any heels higher than an inch or two. She has a mellow voice, a gentle alto that always seems a bit worn, a little hoarse around the edges. Her pale skin has a dusting of freckles, and tends to flush at the slightest provocation. The singer wears snug, scuffed brown leather pants that descend into fur-topped Renaissance Faire boots. These are almost knee high, with horn buttons and raw-edged trim, autumn-colored oak leaves twining up the sides. Her shirt is one of those recycled-fabric boho affairs, a modern version of a typical hippie tunic, something out of folklore: an embroidered yoke with little ties at the Y-neckline in front, sleeves gathered to cuffs below the elbow so as not to interfere with her playing, a patchwork of several printed silks. Not the sort of visitor who walks in every day. Though the overcoat she wears probably does--it's ragged, probably pulled from a Goodwill somewhere. A colorful granny-square scarf wraps around her neck, and she carries a beaten-up leather messenger bag. She heads for the area with the desks. The man at the desk couldn't possibly look more out of place. His jacket is obviously tailored just for him, to match his suit, and likely cost more than any car parked on this block. He wears no tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt hang open. It's hardly business hours, after all. His eyes narrow as the woman approaches, and he wastes no time on pleasantries. "Who are you?” he growls. It has the feel of a challenge. She halts abruptly, paling a little so that the reddened spots on her cheeks stand out more. "I'm sorry?" She certainly doesn't react the way most would. A vague gesture toward the door. "It was open..." "Who," Ben says again, "Are you?" The words come more slowly this time as he stands. It's an odd combination of an attempt to sound less hostile, while at the same time adding a looming physical presence. "We aren't precisely closed, but... I don't recognize you." Ben Tall. Dark. Fit. Ben is all of these, but there is another that stands out above them: Ben is imposing. His presence is unsettling, somehow predatory, as though he were a man always on the edge of violence. He is handsome enough, if one can get past that feral aura. His dark hair is short and styled, his features strong and even, his eyes so deep a brown as to be nearly black. He is well-built without being bulky -- muscular, but not yet muscle-bound. Whether for business or leisure, Ben has expensive taste in apparel. Custom fittings, designer labels, top-of-the-line accessories and top shelf liquor. There's something about her gaze, a sharp, measuring quality--she seems to see every instant of his movement, as he rises. Then the young woman--she can't be much more than twenty--squares her shoulders and crosses the remaining distance, holding out a hand. "Maya Novak," she offers. Uncowed, miraculously so, although she has to actually lift her chin slightly to look up into his face. People don't get that close, unless they're Kin or pack. Nor do they normally meet his gaze with such guileless, straightforward truth. Or that spark of fascination, that tugs the tiniest hint of a smile into being. "Pleased to meet you." Ben's aura burns bright - he is a being of deep feeling, and that cannot be hidden from such perceptive eyes. Hot colors shot through with streaks of silver coruscate about him, indicating pride, stubbornness, defiance, and a deep-seated anger that threatens to consume him. When he smiles, his aura snarls. When he speaks, it fairly growls. "You are," Ben answers, looking Maya over as though for the first time. It's not polite, the way he examines her, nor is it quick. "I am Benedict Markov," he says, meeting Maya's eyes as he briefly takes her hand. "I am Benedict Markov," follows after a moment, "But I suspect you knew that. Why are you here, Miss Novak?" She's absorbed in that loup-garou brightness for a moment, her gaze somehow distracted. It's only at the handshake that she blinks and focuses again on his gaze. Her grip is firm, and fleeting; she wears wool fingerless gloves. Color floods to her face--not a delicate anime-girl blush, this, but a ruddy flush that makes the eye contact falter. A second's time, to deal with that, and she gives a tiny shake of her head. "No," she says, meeting his gaze. "I didn't know. I'm looking into non-profits in the area, trying to get an idea of how this sort of thing is done." He has enough of an ego to look skeptical at that claim, frowning slightly, then shakes his head. "I haven't the slightest," Ben claims, with a flash of teeth that's meant to be friendly but doesn't quite get there. "You'll want my brother. We're invested in the area. It would be good to see others take an interest." He steps past Maya then, passing close, and stops short of the door to stare out into the fading light. "It's dying." With a glance over his shoulder he clarifies, "The city. The East Side. It's dying, if someone doesn't do something." She doesn't shrink back, when he steps past her--just turns in place, to stay oriented on him. "Yeah," she says, the sound a short explosion of breath. Something bleak comes to that pretty face. "Yeah, I know." She wets her lips, and swallows. "You know," Ben repeats, and his frown is nearly audible. "So how will we save it, Miss Novak?" His voice is kept low, a bass rumble. "With basketball? Music?" It's not despair in his voice. He has the sound of a man looking forward to a fight. "I... don't really think it's my place to tell you--" A brief hesitation. "How to fight your battles. I have my weapons against the Enemy. And I'm sure you have yours." Her voice is soft, and oddly... calming. Thankfully, the moon is a tiny sliver. "Who are you, Miss Novak?" Ben turns as he asks the quesrion, his eyes narrow, brow raised - his interest piqued by her response. "You have some idea of who I am, don't you? Of... What you're dealing with." A half-step toward Maya, and his lips part in another savage grin. "Of the situation you are in." After a heartbeat's pause, he corrects himself. "...Of the situation that we are in." There is the slightest hint of fear, when he steps toward her... before he mends that statement. Blended with the fear, though, is a terrible empathy, as if she feels the heat of that rage and somehow it's transformed into aching grief. The latter response, in fact, is far stronger; strong enough to steal her voice away, so that the only answer she makes is a brief, choked syllable. "I--" "You..." Her discomfort draws a smile - one not so very far from commiseration. "Well. Do take your time; I'm in no rush." He turns away again, with that, and a pair of steps carry him to the door. It takes him a moment of staring at the locks, but he finally reaches out to begin securing them. "Should we speak somewhere less... Open?" The mechanical sounds are sharp in the silence. Her voice is far softer, guarded; he can hear the slight tremor in her breath, as she inhales. "I thought you said your brother was the one I should talk to?" She stands perfectly still, now, wariness in her eyes as she watches every nuance of his movements and aura. "About non-profits," Ben agrees, still at work on the doors, "And nonsense." A step to his right, and another lock clicks home. "Should I call for him, then?" Another lock clicks closed, the final one, and he turns to face Maya again. "He'll talk to you about tax papers, and community presence, your mission statement and your aid footprint." He ticks off each item with increasing derision, until he's nearly growling at the last. "But you seem a woman who understands that none of that means a damned thing, if we don't see to the bigger picture." A step away from the door, toward Maya - or perhaps simply toward the gymnasium doors - and he goes on. "Or have I mistaken you?" She meets his gaze, the fear banished in favor of quiet acceptance. There might be a shadow of sorrow, as if she knows quite well she is stepping off a cliff. "No," she answers, a near-whisper barely edged with voice. Still, she doesn't take her eyes from him. "But you're wrong." Not defiant contradiction, but the gentlest statement possible of her own truth. "I'm not." Ben may not be capable of gentility, but the words are flat and even. He waves Maya onward with one open hand, then leads the way himself. There's no joy in his demeanor - he doesn't mean to torment the woman. Rather, there is interest, and need. Ben feels compelled; to him, Maya is a mystery that needs unraveling. "If you think so, then you don't understand the first thing about me or The Enemy." He glances down at Maya as he speaks, a wry grin curling his lips as he borrows her turn of phrase. She follows-- really, there's little choice-- but then takes a few hurried steps to catch up. "*Everything* has meaning," she says quietly. "Your brother's work is important." A subtle tilt of her head allows her to look up at him. "Hope is a weapon. Change is a weapon. What happens here touches all worlds, just as what happens there touches this side. It's the nature of Her dreaming." There's something unnatural in the way Ben moves, in the sudden fire in his eyes. He spins on a heel to face Maya, his hand flashing out to take a fistful of her coat. His teeth bare, and it's suddenly and painfully clear that 'Ben' is a facade: there is no name for this beast. It struggles to form words, and it almost seems as though it will lose the fight. Red-faced, chest heaving, its first attempt comes out as a simple growl. "I'll ask once more," the words finally come, slow and smoldering, "And never again." One step forward, then another, his arm stiff, driving Maya back until a wall stops them both. "Who are you, Maya Novak? What do you know of my Enemy? Or of Her?" The flash of fear is expected, unmistakable. So is the effort of will, the shaking breath she takes to gather a few shreds of calm. Her back to the wall, she squares her shoulders and looks up at him. "I speak to the spirits," she says quietly, without a trace of fear in her voice. "They told me there was need, here. The greatest danger, but also the greatest need." "The greatest danger," Ben repeats, his elbow bending as he steps closer. His laugh holds no mirth, nothing at all pleasant. "That's what the spirits told you?" There's no skepticism in his voice, none of the doubt that she might encounter elsewhere. This is his world, as well. "If not, then I've put it in the wrong place." Still he doesn't let go, though he has begun to relax. A shadow of pain comes to her eyes again, at that laugh. She averts her gaze for a moment, glancing to his arm. "Would you--" The blue eyes return to meet his, with a kind of wry honesty. "It's not like I'm going to run from you," she says pointedly. Ben's eyes follow Maya's, and he does let go - at least with his hand. Holding her in place now with his forearm across her chest brings the two closer still, so that his breath is hot against her cheek as he claims, "I haven't decided yet." His dark eyes meet hers full on now, close and steady. "Are you a friend, Maya Novak? To me? To my kin?" Letting go now, he steps back to make an open-handed gesture that includes the youth center, he says, "To these people, whom I have claimed?" When he makes that shift forward, the sudden ratcheting-upward of tension is palpable. Maya closes her eyes for the space of a breath, and then meets his gaze. She exhales when he finally releases her. The answer is simple, spoken without hesitation, utterly straightforward. "If you'll allow me to be." "I will," Ben agrees, with no hint of irony in his voice. "I will. And you will help me to find what that looks like - you and me, friends." Another appraising look, and he's out of her way. She parks a booted foot against the wall, some of the tension easing. She still watches him like... well, like a hawk. "There are things I need to tell you," she says quietly. "So tell me," Ben says, folding his arms across his chest. "Deliver to me your news, but first..." His dark eyes fix on Maya's, and he centers himself before her, leaning slightly in to look down on the young woman, "Give me the truth of who you are. You are more than a name. Why will I heed your words?" The casual shift of posture is reversed, the moment he steps toward her. It takes an effort of will, not to press her spine to the wall behind her. Even so, there's a tension, not quite covered up by that incongruously cheery, colorful scarf. "You don't have to," she whispers. A moment later, she takes a centering breath. "Your p--" Calm. Another breath, and it's almost palpable in the air, the way she finds the center of her being, gathers herself. Focuses. "Do you follow a totem?" "I am a son of Falcon, who soars above all," comes Ben's answer, "Peerless among hunters, and noblest of his kind." It has the feel of something said often, or often enough. "What do you know of packs, and totems?" He's not angry, not overly hostile, but assessing her as they speak. The woman gives a small shake of her head. "Only that y-- your people follow totems. Speak with the spirits. That Gaia's warriors are maybe ... part spirit, themselves." Eyes averted, she chews unobtrusively on her lower lip, a tension in her jaw. "I fly with Merlin's brother, the Red-Tailed Hawk. Not the Trickster, but the one who sees far." There's a formality to the words, a formula-- but she also clearly has no idea what his reaction might be, when she lifts her chin to look at him again. Ben's lips draw into a thoughtful frown as he considers Maya in silence for a moment, but finally he nods. "Red-Tailed Hawk," he repeats, as though trying it out. "And what has Red-Tailed Hawk told you of Gaia's warriors? How do you know I number among them? He has named me to you?" She swallows, and gives a tiny shake of her head. "I-- saw it in you," she whispers. "The energy is different. Your people... burn brighter. I don't know how to explain." The sharp perception is there, but she is guarded, too. Watching him with care, precisely because he is dangerous and deadly. His lip curls, and Ben rumbles a growl. It draws out a moment until he shakes his head and takes a step back. "So long as you will keep our secrets, and mean us no harm, you are..." It seems difficult to say, but he forces out, "Safe, here. You are in no danger from me or mine." Her brow furrows, as she studies his face. This is clearly unexpected. "Thank you." Another swallow, a slow breath. "I didn't-- come here looking for you," she says. "It-- I spoke the truth, about why I walked in. Even if I could lie with any skill, which I can't--" Ben's eyebrows lift, and he seems amused as he replies: "And I spoke the truth when I said my brother, Stanislav, would help you with that." He holds his ground, just too close for comfort. "But he knows little about our enemy. Stan is a fine man, but no warrior." Something about that closeness is getting to her, just a little; she remains tense as a high-tuned wire. The blue eyes dart away, as she turns her face from him; her color's high again, heat under the pale skin. "How much have you seen, of the other side?" He may have given his word not to harm her, but Ben can't seem to help playing on her discomfort. He edges closer as he speaks. "Enough," he claims. "It is a part of me." A pause, and he adds a question of his own. "How do you know of the other side?" She looks to him, then, meeting his gaze to let him read the truth. "I see it. I walk that road, and speak with the spirits. I've seen--" The discomfort that crosses her face has nothing to do with him; it's a twist of nausea, of revulsion. She looks away again, swallowing hard. "I've seen the-- sickness here. And it's far worse than New York, or Boston. What's happening here is... different, by an order of magnitude." "You have seen the face of the enemy," Ben says, with a single slow nod. "It thinks it has won Detroit, but I mean to defy it. My people will respond, but..." Head cocked to one side, he trails off into a tight smile. "If you mean to join the fight, and you understand the other side, then I have use for you." Her attention snaps to him, then--another unexpected thing, so much so that for a moment he might see disbelief. Then the woman studies him, reads him like an open book. The sight reveals a great deal. A warrior, clad in shining armor, blade held low in both hands. A great wolf, its pelt the same silver as the warrior's mail, howling its rage at a full moon. His qualities are not subtle: forthright, brave, pitiless, proud. He means well, but like any of his kind he is dangerous - perhaps more so than most. The shifts of her expression lay her open, almost as much. Those eyes betray her, open windows to the soul. Fascination, and a subtle echo of the wolf's pain and anger, an empathic reflection. "Ask," she whispers, the word barely making a sound. Ben shifts again, sensing the change in Maya. Now there is a hand's breadth between the two, no more. His hand reaches for her chin, and he watches the woman - beautiful, but is she dangerous? It's clear that he thinks she may be. Still, he answers her single word with one of his own. "Why?" She can't very well retreat--but she does freeze, something locking in her posture the moment he touches her, a flash of some unidentifiable emotion in her eyes. "I don't understand," she whispers. "Why are you here?" Ben's hand drops to his side, but his eyes stay steady on Maya. "In Detroit. Why do you fight? If you have seen it..." He trails off, his voice gone quiet, barely more than a whisper. His meaning, though, is clear: most would flee, or hide, or go mad. She averts her eyes again, her brows drawing together in thought. It takes a long breath for her to formulate her words... and it is getting hard to breathe slow, with the Ahroun invading her space. "It's-- who I am," she says quietly. "What I believe. If I'd never Awakened... I'd be an activist, probably." Her voice stays soft, undefensive, unthreatening. "An activist," he repeats, his voice soft but edged with a menace that he can never fully conceal. "But what have you become instead?" With a lift of one brow he asks, "A warrior?" There's no trace of irony in his voice; it's meant as an honest question. "And you're... New to the fight." Maya wets her lips--the gesture thoughtful rather than seductive. There seems to be no manipulation in her: everything is so very present, in posture and expression, every shift of emotion perfectly obvious. She's still a little flushed--but then, she's wearing her coat and scarf, still, and she's been inside long enough to warm up. "My-- tradition, my... tribe..." She's frowning, still, just a little. "The dreamspeakers. We strive to maintain the balance between this world and the unseen realms. To restore the balance of the Trimurti--the three forces. The broken triad of Wyrm, Weaver and Wyld. Destruction, stasis and change. What's happening here—specifically here, in Detroit—“ The ocean-blue eyes return to his, and this time they're shadowed with subtle grief, the echo of the howling pain and rage of the wolf. "My spirit guide called it 'the beginning of the end.' And if I didn't try to slow that end, to help these people, to-- change what's happening here..." She gives a minuscule shake of her head. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself." Searching his gaze, seeking something--an answer?--she falls silent. Ben listens to the tale with narrowed eyes, nodding as he takes it in. Those dark orbs widen as Maya goes on - he is impressed at her knowledge, and either can't hide it or doesn't bother with the attempt. "My people tell tales and sing songs of the end times," he finally says, with a single heavy nod. "Perhaps Red-Tailed Hawk is right, and we have come here to die, you and I." As he speaks, a subtle grin spreads across his strong boned features, as though he secretly relished the prospect. "But I mean to charge headlong into that fate, Maya Novak. I will not falter; I will not turn aside. If Detroit is to be where my corpse feeds the Wyrm, then I will rage and tear at its minions until my heart beats its last. Can you say the same?" A brief pause, in which he holds the Dreamspeaker's eye with that same feral grin, and he adds, "If not, then you would do best to steer clear of me." She's fascinated again, looking into that headlong battle-lust. "Fighting this... goes beyond life and death," she says quietly. "And there's power in death." She pauses a moment, glancing down again in thought; her expression is soft but solemn, when she looks up to him. "This I swear, by my avatar and all I hold sacred: if I die here, the last power of my life's blood will be spent for Gaia." The steel in her may not be as sharp-edged as his, the blade may be sheathed... but there *is* a blade. Something about the way she holds herself, arrow-straight, might make him think of pride and nobility. She does not look away from him, not for an instant. "That may mean nothing to you, but it is the most binding oath I can give. If blood means more to you, I will swear it in blood. I don't know your ways, or your magic." Ben's grin fades slowly, to be replaced by an expression of satisfaction. A nod of his head, and he steps away to give Maya her space. "Take off your coat if you mean to stay," comes across as not quite an invitation. Almost an admonition. The wave of his hand as he turns to take a step further in, though, is most certainly an invitation of sorts. "The community center is what it seems to be," he says in unsolicited explanation, "But this is a private area." He walks as he talks, sure steps carrying him toward the opposite side of the gymnasium, where he pulls open a door to the back hall. Maya hesitates a moment, then shrugs out of her coat and scarf, draping them over one arm. She follows, steps quiet in the soft boots. They're not really made for Detroit winters. East Side - Carson Youth Center - Back Hall Lockers line one side of this wide hallway, which runs the width of the gymnasium. Two hallways branch off from one end of the room, each separated from the open space here by two sets of heavy steel doors. One leads to a hallway that runs the length of the gymnasium while the other leads to a set of former classrooms that have been converted for use as dormitory rooms. At the opposite end is what appears to be a lounge area, laid out in front of what was doubtless at one time a snack bar servicing high school basketball games. The lounge is a strange space nestled in the hallway's dead end. It sports furniture in a mixture of well-worn and brand new - two couches, three recliners, a large flat-screen television and a bookshelf that holds paperbacks, a stereo, a marble bust of an imposing looking woman and an eclectic assortment of movies on dvd and Blu-Ray. The snack bar is left open nearby, inviting visitors to take advantage of the soda machine behind the counter or help themselves to any of the several snacks that are left out within easy reach. This hallway, closest to the center's maintenance area, is chilly even on the hottest days of summer. Nor does winter bring a respite - the back hall is colder then. The twin chemical smells of fresh paint and industrial adhesive haunt this private space, a bothersome testament to the work that has been done to restore the building. "Right," Ben says as Maya removes her coat, holding the door for her. Stepping through behind the Dreamspeaker, he unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off. "Make yourself comfortable." And to her Sight, this is a comfortable place. A den of sorts, one can almost see firelight flickering, and smell the warm animal scents of a shared living space. He works at his tie next, and when it hangs loose he unbuttons his collar. Jacket and tie are both laid out flat on the counter top before he moves toward a couch, occasionally eyeing Maya as he goes. The woman... prowls. Like nothing so much as a wild animal, exploring a new place. Taking in the sights, the scents, and all those things exposed to her preternatural perceptions. Her eyes, when he catches a glimpse of them, have that sharp focus--and now, knowing, he might associate it with her totem. "You seem half-feral yourself, Miss Novak." Ben cuts straight toward a favorite seat, settling quickly onto the nicer of the couches - an expensive affair upholstered in burgundy leather. His dark eyes follow Maya without pretense as he settles in, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. He switches subjects without warning, nodding toward the snack bar. "There are refreshments. A liquor cabinet as well. You'll find that well stocked." Her shoulders lift uncomfortably at his observation. "I've been... away," she says quietly, a strangeness in her voice. "For... a long time." With an amused tilt of his head, Ben returns, "And not to The Continent, I'd guess." Maya gives a tiny shake of her head. "No," she answers softly. "Sometimes I forget how to talk to... people. How to walk in this world." She turns to look at him, curiosity awakening. "Does that happen to you, ever? Can your kind forget... what it is to be human?" "Before I answer your questions - and I may yet answer them - tell me: what do you know of my kind?" Ben affects a lazzy, arrogant swagger, but he watches Maya with a keen eye. This one is more than a simple monster. A clever monster, at the least. The woman wets her lips nervously and then realizes she may have met his gaze too long--she blinks, and averts her eyes. "Too much," she says, "and yet not enough." She starts to wander again, slowly, touching things on occasion the way a curious dog might nose or sniff at them. "I know that you are shapeshifters. That you take... five forms, if not more. That you are werewolves, but not as folklore and myth would describe them." She looks over to him again, those eyes somehow sharp and dreaming at the same time. That look on her face... it might remind him of a Theurge he's known. "That you can be fey and beautiful, brilliant and murderous... as the Mother Earth can be. And you are Her children, her warriors. Born, maybe, to keep the balance. To defend and heal her." Ben wears a thoughtful frown while he listens, but finally nods agreement, though he wears a dissatisfied look as he does. "Then you should know that I was never human - that the humanity I pretended to as a youth was a lie, and one I hardly recall." He mulls her words over in silence for the space of several heartbeats, then adds, "There is no balance, now. It passed from the world in an age long past. We defend Her, yes, but... Can she be healed?" The question brings with it a sudden touch of melancholy, and the Garou's eyes finally wander from his companion. Something in her expression shifts, changes, as she watches him slide into that darker mood. As before, it isn't pity, but an empathic compassion--she knows this feeling from experience. It draws her like a magnet draws iron, and she crosses the room to him without a thought. He is on his feet as she approaches, his eyes on Maya again. "You mean to console me," he guesses, sneering, "But I need no comfort. I have long since made my peace with Her death, Miss Novak. Now it remains to me to ease her passing as best I can." The sneer turns to a wicked grin as his hands unconsciously ball into fists at his side. "If you expect I will care for your compassion, then you know nothing of me. Perhaps," he says, his tone a touch lighter as he shrugs, frowning, "You ought not be here." She halts the moment she sees the shift in his emotions. Not the words, but the flash of feeling that impels them. The flush comes even as he begins to speak, a red tide of humiliation that goes all the way to the neckline of her shirt. She ducks her head, perhaps to attempt to hide it; it might be a gesture of habit, for someone whose emotions are so transparent. When those hands curl into fists, her gaze focuses on one of them, something guarded awakening in her eyes. And then Maya lifts her head, her shoulders squaring unconsciously--drawing herself up to her full height, however insignificant it might be compared to his. The sea-blue gaze meets his, a subtle fierceness there, a conviction that runs ocean-deep in her. "It doesn't matter whether you want my compassion or not," she says quietly. "Compassion is a weapon. Hope is a weapon. Just as fear and despair and hopelessness are the tools of the Wyrm, and apathy the tool of the Weaver." Steel in her spine, she looks at his face, his eyes, not those dangerous hands. Dangerous though his hands may be, what lies behind Ben's eyes is more fearsome still. Something burns there, begging to be loosed, something terrible. Her conviction gives the man pause, though, and that reins in the monster. "You believe this," he says simply, mirth flickering to life within him. "Perhaps they are," he admits, though he wears his skepticism plainly. "Wise eyes and naive words..." He trails off into a barked laugh, and gives something personal with, "You remind me of someone who has meant a great deal to me." A second thread of silver chases through his aura at that, a deep admiration, gratitude mixed with protectiveness. "I think I shall enjoy you, but mind your tone." The last is said with no hint of admonition. Rather, it has the tone of a simple warning. If the subtle widening of her eyes is any clue, she *sees* the surging of the beast inside him. Tension rises in her, and she has to gather her will to do it... but she holds her ground. Something causes the flush to deepen, until it's that color only pale-skinned people can turn. The scar shows white at her throat, all the more so because she lifts her chin the slightest fraction to face him down. She answers him only with a very, very small nod, one that confirms the wariness in her gaze. "Scotch for me," Ben says abruptly, "Over ice. From the top cabinet, not the lower one." One open hand gestures vaguely in that direction as Ben settles back onto the same couch, one arm thrown along its back. "And help yourself to any of it." <<DICE>> Ben rolls manipulation + leadership, difficulty 6 She's moving almost before she realizes it, to obey him. Two steps, and then she halts for a moment, indignation dawning, her lips parting on an incredulous breath. "If you would," Ben amends when Maya slows, with a genuine laugh at his own bad manners that dances brightly through his aura. "You'll forgive me. I'm accustomed to a certain amount of deference." She looks to him the moment he speaks--and *she* is embarrassed by that moment of knee-jerk obedience. Mastering her emotions, she speaks with only a hint of tartness in her voice. "Apparently." There's a little smile behind the words, though, something she can't quite seem to help. Lowering her gaze again--this time a bit pointedly--she heads for the little cabinet. With a rough chuckle at Maya's temerity, Ben watches her work. "I'm not at all certain we're going to get along, Miss Novak," he calls with the vague air of a question. "But in time I think you will grow accustomed to me." A glance toward the window, out into the twilight, and he adds, "Of course, Detroit could see us both dead before we find out one way or the other." "Not if you or I can help it," Maya says. Her back's still turned, as she pours two fingers of Scotch into a glass and seeks out the ice. A few cubes get dropped in. For herself, she pours the tiniest taste--perhaps a quarter of what she's given him, a few sips, nothing more. It *is* a fifteen-year-old single malt, one she could never afford in her current circumstances. "You have the 15," she murmurs. "Nice..." When she returns, she holds out his glass with a wry little moue, a smile in her eyes. "Sir." "Do we?" Ben's eyes linger on Maya as she searches and pours, and are slow to rise to her eyes once she turns. "I lose track. I sign the checks, but Stan does the shopping." He takes the tumbler with the slightest nod of appreciation, and sips for a taste before he adds, deadpan (with a humor in muted colors that only Maya could see), "I don't often shop. It seems I'm not a 'people person,' as they say." "Now there's a shock," Maya says dryly, before she catches herself. There's a little moment of self-consciousness, a slightly apologetic glance... and then curiosity. "Does it... bother you, at all?" Ben's, "No," comes too quickly to be entirely true, but his aura tells the story more fully. Pain, and frustration, and fierce pride at bearing the burden weave through one another. "It is my lot. Some carry it more heavily than others. Some bear it more easily." There's an unconscious smugness that goes with that which makes it clear that he believes he falls into that camp. Her eyes narrow the slightest bit, focusing, the empathy surfacing again. She blinks abruptly, some emotion surfacing on her side--and the woman covers it adroitly, lowering her eyes to sip at the single malt. She rolls it around for a moment, her gaze somehow inward as she enjoys the flavors; it's only after this process is complete that she swallows and speaks. "That, I can understand," she says softly. Ben takes it in turn to sip from his tumbler, which makes for a short lull in the conversation. Looking up at her, the Garou offers only a throaty sound of agreement: "Mm." His eyes, nearly coal black in this light, drift again to the window. "This moon suits you," comes his softly spoken judgment. Her brow furrows, and she's caught mid-sip; she swallows, giving a tiny shake of her head. "I don't understand," she answers, half-questioning. "No," Ben agrees, clearly without any intention of explaining himself. "So how, then, did you learn of my people? That interests me." The flicker of alarm is unmistakable--the glass is at her lips, and she hasn't taken that last sip yet, and she lowers it without drinking. There's something guarded and painful and dark-shadowed about her expression, when she looks across to him. "I can't explain that," she whispers. "I'm sorry." Ben nods his understanding, his expression knowing. "A friend. Someone dear to you? You are right not to tell me, if you care for him." His anger burns, but it is in check. It is instead an even, calculating voice that admits, "I would likely kill him." She closes her eyes tight for a moment, the pain rising until it almost chokes her; at first all she can do is give a swift shake of her head. "It's not-- anything like that," she finally says, a hint of strain in her voice. Turning away, she paces a few strides from him, needing space, needing *distance* from the anger and the black eyes and that voice. Tossing back the last sip, she resumes her course, to set the shot glass on the liquor cabinet. "Not something like that..." Ben lets his forearm come to rest on the arm of the couch, his glass dangling from his fingertips. "If I find it is a servant of The Enemy who has whispered our secrets in your ear, it is you who I'll..." He trails off into a tight smile, his meaning obvious. There are subtle shifts in her posture: fear, conflict, unease, more conflict. "No," she says, her voice even quieter. "It's mainly just experience. Watching. Witnessing. Sometimes... finding out small things, from the few who've-- seen me as an ally." The pain still lingers, a slight thing in the underlying tautness of her voice. The low rumble that escapes Ben is disturbingly close to a growl. "You would not lie to me," he forces out, after a moment's pause. Not a fact of which he is certain- more akin to a command. He seems on the edge of saying more, but chokes the words back with an obvious show of effort. The visible lines of neck and shoulders are hard, almost trembling. "I'm afraid I'm not a very good liar," she says unsteadily. "So no. I wouldn't try." She takes a slow, centering breath, and moves to retrieve her coat without looking to him. "I should go," she says swiftly. "Before I-- make it worse." "But," Ben warns, "I will see you. Soon, yes?" Another long sip drains his drink, and he puts it aside witn exaggerated care. "Go, then, Miss Novak. But be in touch with us. I will speak to Stan. He will contact you." Maya doesn't lift her gaze, as she tugs on her coat. She gives a quick, distracted nod, and its into a pocket, withdrawing a card. The blue eyes finally return to his, as she comes close enough to hand it across to him. "There's a lot I can do," she says simply. "And I'd be honored, if you will accept my help and let me stand with you against this hell." Ben stands to take the card between two fingers, dropping it into a pocket without looking it over. "Soon you will explain to me just what you can do," he says. "And we will stand together. Perhaps soon." With a nod toward the door, he dismisses Maya. "You know the way, then." She studies him for the space of a quick breath, another--and then her gaze darts away, and she turns to grab up her scarf and go. | |
