Clean-Up

[Wrenboys Rhyme] Michael arrives from the West, the journey from packhouse to tainted cabin made far shorter by use of his quadrupedal form. The black fur melts away to pink flesh as he passes the man-made pond. The Irishman wrinkles his nose in disgust as he glances at the murky waters surface. Twenty-four hours ago it was used to store and rot human remains. Remains intended for consumption by the twisted creatures who called the nearby cabin home.

The weather has been steadily warming. Trees were beginning to regain the appearance of vitality, wildlife sightings were becoming more frequent. Nature was rebuilding all around after the brutally cold winter. Everywhere except here. There are no signs of any sort of living creature nearby. Frogs do not sing, crickets do not chirp. Though Owen assured him that there were no other Wyrm-tainted beasts in the vicinity, Michael approaches the cabin with unnatural stealth. His footfalls make no sound despite the bed of rotting leaves on the ground.

In moments he is slipping through the cabin door, face twisting contemptuously as he examines the interior.

[Imogen Slaughter] The worst of the cabin and the surrounding area had been cleared away in the immediate aftermath of combat. Before, ironically, the veil had been more or less protected from hikers stumbling on the area - the aberrants had been self-cleaning, killing witnesses and consuming them. Now, without that dubious protection, immediate steps were taken - Imogen beginning to work toward it without comment to the other two - to at least create a veneer of protection.

Inside, he can still smell cured meat even though the human hams had been taken down, hooks hanging from the ceiling as a gruesome reminder. The stench of human flesh and organs is cooked into the walls and ceilings of the cabin. Perhaps the beast in him, horribly, is reminded of the way fresh meat tastes and is hungered by it, even as the human in him recoils. A stew pot sits on the stove, empty now of its gruesome meal of the night before.

It is a one room cabin. Everything, all the horrors were laid bare last night from the threshold of the cabin. Now it is merely stomach-turning memories mixing with other, almost innocuous articles. Cabbage patches dolls with mutilated faces have been pilled haphazardly in the middle of the room in a jumble of pink and blue sheets, the bed stripped of it bedding, the mattress and frame shoved up sideways to lean against the wall.

And Imogen, crouched in front of it - in front of a safe, her gun levelled toward the door and, more accurately, Michael, her finger on the trigger and the safety off.

Snk. The sound of her sliding the safety back into place is sharp, and practiced as she lowers the weapon, her finger on the trigger. "It's you," she observes, somewhat unnecessarily.

[Imogen Slaughter] (correction: Finger on the trigger guard - for the second last sentence)

[Wrenboys Rhyme] "Indeed it is."

His reaction to finding a gun pointed at his head is minimal, not surprisingly. Michael simply arches a curious brow as he stares down the black eye of the pistols barrel, then continues to pace the rough wooden floor of the one-time lair. Boards creak loudly underfoot, as if one wrong step could send a person below the wretched shack. Dark green eyes linger on the gruesome hooks that hang from above. The stench is hard to ignore, made evident by the Irishman occasionally lifting his arm to press the back of his wrist to his nose.

"Like a fuckin' charnel house in here. How long have y' been at this?" He skirts the pile of dolls carefully, ignoring how the few with eyes remaining seem to stare up in blank horror. Trying to, at least. The safe is the focus of his attention for now. "D' y' have the means t' crack that thing?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen, in contrast, appears not to notice the smell of their surroundings at all. She slides her gun back into a holster at the base of her spine, the gesture habitual. "A few hours," she answers, absently, lifting a hand to push hair back from her eyes. The only sign that she, too, finds this place disgusting: though her hands are visibly clean, she uses the back of her wrist to wipe the hair from her eyes, not her fingers. Whatever she has touched here, she does not want it to spread any further than is necessary.

His question provokes a faint quiet twist of her mouth as she lifts up a hand to display a small key between two fingers. "I do," she says. "I found it beneath the ginger tea o'er there." A lift of her chin indicates a small nook near the stove, the ginger tea the only thing still remaining there. "Hopefully whatever is in there is inorganic."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] "Y' know, I was never much o' a tea drinker before all this. Now I'm certain I'll never try it again." He drops to a knee beside her and reaches out to brush his fingers across the top of the safe. The tips are examined for dust, grime, blood...whatever might have been left behind by the previous owners. Imogens spoken hope of what is not in the safe is met with a wry grin. "There's only one way t' find out, I'd imagine. Let's get her open."

Its not hard to see by the eager brightness of his eyes that Michael is intensely excited by the safe. The Ragabashes inquisitive nature is evidenced by the way he rocks on his heels. Anything could be in there, after all. "If somethin' jumps outta there I'm goin' t' be pissed."

[Imogen Slaughter] "T'be perfectly accurate," the Cornishwoman remarks as she turns back to the safe, the key in hand, "it will me who will be on th'receivin' end o' the jumpin'." Nevertheless, she fits the key into the lock, turning it as she turns the handle to the safe. The hinges groan as she pulls the door open. There is nothing particularly exciting that occurs in the immediate aftermath. No goblin or boogeyman leaps out from the small safe's interior. Imogen's expression is neutral as she looks at the contents, before reaching in.

She pulls out three wallets or so - one black leather, the other brown leather, the other a sports wallet with brightly coloured, water proof fabric. She sets them aside, and reaches in again, retrieving another three, then once more to retrieve one more. This one is zippered, and she undoes it carefully, pulling it open.

"Credit cards, driver's licences," she says, before parting the billfold between two fingers, "No cash."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] "Property o' previous meals, I'd expect." He doesn't bother thumbing through the identification cards. Instead he rises once more to his feet and begins his slow pacing of the single room. The few artifacts left behind by the gruesome couple are inspected carefully. The Fianna lifts a stack of VHS tapes, each white label bearing the scrawled words "Wheel of Fortune" accompanied by various air-dates. "July 18th, 1991. November, 1986. Vintage."

The tapes are returned to the warped table they were stored on for countless years. Most of the wood in this room is warped. The ceiling shows signs of mold where water has leaked through the dilapidated roof. Dark spots on the flooring could be from the numerous leaks, or possibly grease splatters from rendered human flesh. Michael begins opening cabinets, speaking to Imogen without turning to watch her. "What will y' do with the ID's? From what I heard out o' the Spirals mouth last night, there's no real reason t' think any o' them were related. Sounded like they were just random hikers and joggers..."

[Imogen Slaughter] Her attention lingers on the wallets, a silence drawing out perhaps a little longer than it should have.

"I'm not sure yet," she says, finally. "On th'one hand, anyone who has them is at risk fer bein' marked as a serial killer wi' precious little they can do about it."

A brief pause. "On the other hand. If that anyone were a 'someone', and we needed t'get them into a spot o' legal trouble..."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] He nods. "It's a good thought. Will y' hold them until they're needed? Or would y' prefer I did?"

If there were any sympathy or pity for the wallets' owners, Michael does not express it. Another set of cabinet doors are opened and rifled through. The contents are sparse, much like the rest of the house. A few boxes of cereal, an open bag of moldy rice, a preserve jar half full of what he hopes are actually preserves. All covered with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.

[Imogen Slaughter] "You'd better," she answers. "You'll be less likely t'ha' police come t'yer door wi' a search warrant, I think."

A beat. "Don't use them wi'out checkin' wi' me though, will you? I ha' a use in mind."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] He chuckles quietly and returns to her side, open palm extended for the various forms of identifaction. "Don't worry, I wouldn't know how t' use 'em even if I wanted t'. I'll just keep 'em safe until smarter folks can tell me what t' do wi' 'em."

Once the IDs are handed over, Michael tucks them away into the pockets of his plain brown slacks. When he withdraws his hand, it is grasping his true friend; the steel flask. He unscrews the cap and partakes of a quick shot, then extends the drink to Imogen. "With all th' excitement last night, I didn't get th' chance t' ask y'...how long y' been shooting? You're Hellfire and Damnation wi' those guns, Doctor."

[Imogen Slaughter] It does not quite happen that way - Imogen keeps them in their wallets, and turns away, getting to her feet. There is an aluminium brief case in a corner, open, and from it, she retrieves what look like wipes and a plastic evidence bag.

"More than ten years, now," she says, glancing at him briefly, somewhat shrewdly. "I've had quite a bit o' practice."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] "Yeah, I couldn't tell by th' way y' were ventilating the behemoth." He smirks and crosses his arms over his chest, watching with no small amount of interest as she continues her collection of evidence. The process clearly fascinates him, and soon he is hovering around her in an attempt to make mental notes yet still maintain a respectable distance. "So, what are y' doin' there? Making fingerprints?"

[Imogen Slaughter] By now, Imogen has returned to the small pile of wallets. "Removing mine," she says as she opens the packet taking out a small wipe. She picks up a wallet through the plastic bag, creating a protective barrier, and wipes a hand over the surface of wallet before setting it aside and picking up the other one.

"If this is planted, we'll ha' t' find a way to make fingerprints if we can," she says almost absently. "but fer the moment, I'd just like t'avoid any chance tha' this can be traced back t'me."

She exhales a breath, briefly, glancing around the cabin. "If I thought there were a way t'do it, I'd suggest we torch th'place. There's no way t'sanitize it entirely."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] He likewise casts his eyes about the room, frowning thoughtfully. "Believe me, I've been rollin' th' idea around in m' head most o' th' day. I don't like havin' this taint on th' edge o' th' packlands. A fire is gonna draw alot o' attention, though. Somebody would come t' investigate, an' there's no way o' knowing if we've cleared every bit o' evidence from th' area. Just our luck some Junior Detective would stumble on a finger we missed, or some such thing."

The flask is lifted to his lips once more. The burn in his throat is more comfort than he has felt in days. Even in the dim lighting of the soon-to-be-abandoned building, his eyes look hollow. Sunken in. The weariness he feels is evident to all but the most obtuse individuals, though he never speaks of it. He simply drinks more. "At this point I'm thinkin' t' have th' pack tear this shit-hole down ourselves. We can haul out th' lumber an' burn it bit by bit. It'll take time, but it's quiet. Safer."

[Imogen Slaughter] There is a long pause - through it, Imogen's hands are moving. She picks up another wallet, wipes all the surfaces clean. Once, she stops in the rhythm, only to tear open a fresh wipe to start again. She is methodical, careful, and utterly aware of what she is doing.

Her eyes move to the walls of the cabin.

"Is th'wood tainted?" she asks.

[Wrenboys Rhyme] Michael shakes his head, following Imogens gaze as if he expected something to spring from the very spot on the wall she stares at. "Owen performed a cleansing, whatever taint there was should be gone. But...doesn't feel that way, does it? Not when y' take a second t' think about what was happening here."

He sighs, going to the flask once more. Before it touches his lips he murmurs around the metal neck. His words are likely nothing that Imogen doesn't already know. "Places just have a way o' holdin' on t' bad memories, no matter how much y' try t' wipe 'em away. Some things just can't be cleaned, some things just can't be forgot. But I'll damned sure do m' best t' rip it down and bury it deep. Even if I have t' do it wi' bare hands."

[Imogen Slaughter] There is a faint line between her eyebrows while he speaks, but it does not grow deeper as the words pass his mouth. It is not the subject that provokes the reaction. In fact - the line had formed even as she asked the question.

How she resents every moment like this.

Silence for several seconds - she finishes the wallets and gathers them all without touching them with her bare hands into the bag, sealing it.

"Th'Sept used t'hold regular bonfires out 'ere," she says. "If yeh control the blaze and do it in small chunks, yeh should escape notice."

A beat, an arched eyebrow as she gets to her feet, offering the plastic bag back over. "Just try not t'burn down Chicago. I hear that's already happened once."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] The dark thoughts are brushed away as he takes the bag and flashes a bright grin at the Doctor. "Yeah, I heard that story m'self. Y' know th' legend says it was a woman named Maureen O' Leary whose cow kicked over a lantern that started th' blaze? They just love blamin' th' Irish, don't they? Like we're a bunch o' irresponsible drunks."

Another hit from the flask, and then it is pocketed. The evidence bag is taken gingerly, turned over in his hands for examination. "What had y' out this far last night? I can't imagine that your joggin' brought y' t' this lovely piece o' landscape."

[Imogen Slaughter] A brief pause. She gets to her feet, returning to the aluminium case, stooping to retrieve, this time, a black garbage bag.

"There are kinfolk who werk fer th'county 'ere. One o' them heard about this place and let me know about it."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] He nods thoughtfully and begins to move slowly towards the door. His eyes are fixed on the woods beyond the threshold when he speaks. "I should make sure word gets out t' th' Kinfolk about th' borders o' Outrider lands. It would've been nice if they had contacted us about th' threat in our backyard." He glances back at Imogen, hastily amending his statement. "Not that I was disappointed t' see you arrive last night. Your help was greatly appreciated...between th' two o' us, I was startin' t' worry that Owens injuries were going t' get th' better o' him before we could finish th' fight."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen casts him a dry look. "What d'yeh think they'll draw yer territory lines on a map? Packs come and go and Garou die. We ha' t'make a system that works no matter what. S'impossible to keep track o' all o' yeh."

She shakes the bag open and begins to scoop up the mutilated dolls and blankets.

"Besides - a smell is a smell. There's no cause t'involve Full-bloods unless we know its worth involving them. Fer all they knew it was a rotting bear."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] "Back home the Kin know what lands they're walkin' on, and who claims those lands." He sighs and paces forward, further closing the distance between himself and the door. There's a slight shrug of his broad shoulders as he leans against the frame, watching the world outside. His voice is distant and tired. Even his ever-present lilt seems to fall flat. "But I suppose this ain't home."

Michael turns back, watching as Imogen resumes the physical clean-up of the cabin. "Again, I do appreciate your assistance in all this. I should be goin'. I have watch in an hour."

[Imogen Slaughter] "There was territory once," she says, her eyes on the dolls as she continues to stuff them into the bag, "owned by a pack - they owned it fer years, down in Cabrini Green. Had two pack houses in it. Recently, I was invited t'one o' their houses by a kinfolk to review their security. It's been taken o'er by another pack. As has parts, I assume, of the territory.

"As far as I know, she had no idea who had owned it before. Nor did she ha' reason to. The pack ceased to exist years ago. I doubt she even knew the names, or the Full-bloods who were in it, fer all th'fact they raised a Caern."

She glances up, and though no specific emotion can be read from her voice, nor even in her expression - that something is there is clear. That it is unpleasant is in the tendon that moves along the side of her jaw, a certain set to her mouth.

"This is not back home. Good luck on yer watch."

[Wrenboys Rhyme] He watches her for a long, silent moment. The expression on her face practically sings out to his desire for unravelling mysteries. There is a split second where he parts his lips to speak, a question sure to follow judging the curious set of his eyes. But the words are left unspoken. There is no query. Michael simply offers a small nod of his head in farewell.

"Good night, Doctor."

Something else trembles behind those words. Questions...answers perhaps...whatever it is, or was, it never passes his lips. Instead he turns away. There is a flurry of motion as he leaps the railing of the front porch and dashes for the woodline. The tall Irishman is replaced once more by the large, black wolf....now carrying an evidence bag gently in his jaws. The beast pauses at the woodline, glancing back at the cabin one last time. And then disappears into the foilage.