World of Darkness World of Darkness: Attrition - Mending [Complete]

[Owns-The-Night]

Declan's face was a mask. Muscle rippled along the length of his jaw, and the silver glow of his eyes became a hard, fragmented glitter as Morgan's matter-of-fact explanation struck into his soul. His fists clenched and his shoulders bunched but he was motionless otherwise, holding his gaze on hers, holding her gaze with his. Behind that silver mirror the Wolf bayed, flinging itself against the bars of his self-control again and again and again.

*KILLHIMKILLHIMKILLKILLRENDHISFLESHTEARHISHEARTOUTKILL!*

"You didn't say no." Declan's voice was calm. Quiet. "He offered you Crimson, then? Or did he give you the same choice as he was giving you earlier? And he..." There was a creaking sound from the table as his hands closed on the edge of it. "He beat you. With a belt. And you... tolerate this?"

[Astra D.]

"I didn't say no, and he didn't offer." Okay. He's pissed, but he's at least calm. I can work with this, she thought, trying to convince herself that this might not end as badly as she'd expected. "After he was done, he leaned down, and..."

And what? "And I thought the same stupid thing I always do?" "And I pretended he cared?" "And I kind of liked it?" "And I let him get away with it?" "And I hate him for it, but not as much as I hate myself?" "And I will probably do it again?" Which "and" is it Morgan? One of them? All of them? Exactly how honest do you plan to be?

"...and I thought he was going to kiss me," she finished quietly, a faint tension around her eyes as they swept down to study the surface of the table in front of her. It wasn't shame, precisely, though it might easily have been mistaken for that. What it was, exactly, would have been difficult for even Morgan herself to quantify, because it would mean admitting truths far too uncomfortable for her to even contemplate. "I guess he decided the drugs were a better 'reward,' because that's what I got instead. As far as the belt?" She tipped her chin upward, green eyes daring him silently to judge her. She'd warned him that her life was complicated, and now she was giving him a glimpse of one of the reasons why.

"I deal with it. Sometimes... Sometimes I even almost like it. After the first few minutes, the sensations start to get so mixed-up it's hard to tell what hurts, and what feels good, and after that, it doesn't matter anymore anyway. It's like it opens me up, takes everything that's tangled up inside and draws it out of me, lets me cry or scream or laugh or, hell, all of them at once, and everything comes pouring out until I'm empty again, and all that's left in me is quiet. Maybe I'm crazy, or maybe I'm just supposed to think that I am. Maybe this is just some big cosmic joke and I'm not seeing the punchline. I don't know."

The words came out in a desperate tumble, a chaotic rush of syllables underscored with emotion that rang clear in her voice: defiance, anger, disappointment, guilt, regret, and, strangely, even hope.

[Owns-The-Night]

His anger faded slightly. The roaring howl of the Wolf's anger became a sullen snarling, promising future bloody reckoning. He released his grip on the edge of the table and leaned back, the glitter in his eyes becoming less harsh as he tried to understand. His emotions were simple, his mind moved in straight lines, as a predator's should. Not for him were the complicated, neurotic and often self-destructive aspects of human nature. This was something Owns-The-Night had no experience of, and no way to relate to.

Or did he.

"I... think I understand." He was surprised to hear those words from his own lips, but it seemed Morgan was too. "Some of what you said. I know about it."

He went on in a low, reflective voice. He could understand the need for release, he explained to her. The year leading up to his First Change had been hellish for him as a nuzusul. The combat stress, the smell of blood seeming to heighten when mingled with fear around him. The trapped animal urge to lash out at those nearest him when taking cover from mortar bombardment. The powerful urge to throw down his gun in battle and close with his enemies with teeth and hands, even doing so once in a frenzy of bloodlust and panic during a night attack, only to be pulled off a screaming, bleeding insurgent by his squadmates. Then back in L.A: a crazy veteran. Lonely, feeling unworthy, and going out of his mind as spirits whispered in his dreams, as dogs cowered as he passed, as people were even less able to meet his eye. Everything had built and built in him: until one glorious full moon.

"It hurt. It hurt a lot." Declan continued, his eyes reflecting that full, glorious light of Luna's gaze as he stared at her. "But it was a good hurt. It burned away my confusion, my inner pain. It flayed my mind clean of my entire life, all of my alienation and guilt and loneliness. I was reborn as I took the Gauru shape for the first time. And I felt beautifully pure afterwards: pure of purpose, pure of conscience." His eyes glistened now, moisture gathering as he remembers that moment.

"I understand the need for release. I still need it myself, as the moments go past and I feel sullied by everyday life. I sometimes want to run free as a wolf: to go into the forest and never return, to forget who I am. And against the Azlu..." He looked at her with a faint smile, a strangely wild and terrible light gleaming in his eyes. "I was complete in that moment: instinct and brain together. That's what I am, at the core of myself. I hunt down and kill things like that. Monsters that weaken and prey on the Herd. Whether they have eight legs, or two."

He tilted his head as he gazed at her, considering. "What you put yourself through, what you tolerate being done to you... I don't think it's right. I think that one day it'll kill you. And..." He took a deep breath. "I don't want that to happen. Don't want you to be gone. Because the only time in my life I felt anything as pure and clean as what I've described to you is when your arms were around me the night of that party."

[Astra D.]

Despite everything that she had told him, he was still perfectly calm, even understanding. Compassionate. He hadn't threatened to kill anyone or called her any of a list of names that even now was cycling through her head from long familiarity. Morgan was utterly flummoxed. She had no idea to respond to that level of sincerity. He genuinely sounded as if he, a fairly recent acquaintance, would actually miss her if something happened, and both of them seemed to expect that, eventually, it would. What could she say that wouldn't sound ridiculous? They had connected on some level, certainly, and there was definitely a spark, but complicated as her life was and convoluted though her psyche may have been, the notion of something more meaningful than passion or idle flirtation was an idea too complex for her to grasp easily. She never would have conceived of the fact that he would have felt so strongly about their brief little interlude, and the surprise registered clearly on her pale features.

Morgan shifted uncomfortably in her chair, worrying at the flesh of her lower lip with white teeth. This conversation had the potential to get intolerably awkward very, very quickly, and she carefully weighed her next words before she spoke. Curious as she was about what, exactly, that evening had meant to him, she wasn't entirely certain she was ready to hear the answer.

"I understand that you're concerned. I do, and I appreciate it, really. I understand, too, that it's not the way a normal person approaches life and their problems. I can see how people deal with their issues, watch the process, and even make a damned good guess about the outcome, but none of that works for me. A shrink would probably tell me it's something to do with my childhood, and they might even be right, but therapy is bullshit, constant medication isn't even an option, and suicide is just stupid. So, I get masochistic once in a while. When I can't drink it away, music doesn't drown it out, and a canvas isn't big enough to hold it all, it has to go somewhere. I don't know how else to describe it, except to say that this, what I've told you, is what makes sense to me. Fucked up as it sounds, it works, and I understand it."

[Owns-The-Night]

He nodded slowly, as though digesting the idea one bite at a time as Morgan explained herself further. His brow furrowed as he worried at the problem, trying to see a route through for his friend. There was some sickness here, some scarring that he couldn't perceive with his eyes. What could he do? He was a warrior from a race of hunters. He could track and kill. This was a matter that he couldn't punch, kick, claw or rend out of existence. Kill Trent, and she would find another Trent. This was simply the way things had to be.

Wasn't it?

Something in him bit down, refused to let go. *No. That is the way things ARE. Life is change. Look at her: she is alive. When with him, she is dead.* He glanced at Morgan, taking her in again, evaluating the woman in front of him against the vibrant enchantress who he had swapped secrets with under Luna's smile and then, by contrast, the dead-eyed girl who reminded him of a refugee in a war-zone, little more than a zombie under Trent's direction. He came to a decision.

"Listen to me." His voice was level, a touch of steel behind his words. "Crimson is a killer. That fuckhead dosed you on something that kills almost everyone that tries it. Even a guy like me knows that. For what he's done, for what he nearly did, I should kill him." He kept his eyes level on hers, saw the flinch and beginnings of protest, and forestalled her with a near-growl. "I'm not finished." She subsided for the moment.

"Trent isn't the problem. He's a parasite that feeds on you, and maybe others like you. You surrender yourself to that treatment, so you can feel that it's out of your control, that you need it or deserve it or some shit. You're like a junkie." His voice was still calm, concern for her tinged with glacial focus. "There are other ways. Nothin's set in stone, Morgan. Remember what we said about Fate? You get dealt a hand, and some parts of it are shitty. But you can still play the hand your way, maybe turn it into a winner."

"Right now, I want to help you. Not just because of how I feel, or my fuckin' hatred for guys like Trent. But because keepin' the Herd strong is my business. That's what wolves do. There's two ways to do this. One is to pick off those that weaken the herd. The other is to force the others to stay ahead of the weakest, to get stronger." He laid his hands flat on the tabletop, watching her as he spoke. "On one hand, I could hunt down Trent and scatter his remains in bite-size chunks between here and San Francisco. On the other, you can control the situation by not lettin' that piece of shit treat you like that anymore. When it gets too much, when the rage and pain and shittiness needs somewhere to go come talk to me, tell me about it, and we'll work something out together." His voice was coldly matter-of-fact as he discussed rending a human being to little pieces, and he left Morgan in no doubt he could and would do just that.

"It's all up to you. Because if he does seriously hurt or kill you, through an O.D. or through goin' too far with the beat-downs, I will make his last minutes on this planet about as terrifyingly painful as I can. And that's pretty damn bad." He grinned, a toothy, predatory smile that reminded Morgan further that this man was not, in fact, human at all. He cared about her, sure, but it was the care of a wild creature that would tolerate no injury to those under his protection. "Come to me, let me help you when it gets bad and you need that release. We'll find some way to do that whatever it takes. But Trent beating and drugging you is not what you need. You are a fucking willworker. You have seen shit that would make that cockstain wet himself and pass out, and you've come through it. He is so damn unworthy of you that anyone can see it. Reach out and take control."

His words hung in the air for a moment, and as the enormity of what he said hit Morgan, that slight grin crooked his lips. "How's that for an abnormal approach to life problems?"

[Astra D.]

"How dare you."

The words were practically a hiss, three little syllables that somehow managed to contain the sum of more than a decade's quiet fury wrapped up in a neat little whispery package. Had there been a wolf raging in her eyes, it wouldn't have been surprising, but, no. Only glittering shards of green and gold reflected the cruel, mercurial beauty of the Enchantress's realm. Uratha and warrior he may have been, but her anger at the lines he had crossed burned away such cares. The color had long since drained from her face, leaving only a high flush of crimson across her cheekbones and chest as blood surged hot beneath porcelain skin; this, this was an emotion the Rahu knew well.

Slowly, deliberately she rose from her chair, palms flat on the table.

"How dare you," she continued in that same unnervingly soft voice, a hint of laughter subtly underscoring the question, "presume to know what I am, or how I feel, or what I do? Better still, who are you, to me, to set yourself up as the only acceptable substitute? You called me a junkie. Would you be my coke, then, to get me off heroin? Let me trade one vice for another? Because that's exactly what it would be." She shook her head with calculated slowness, but otherwise remained unmoving. "The only difference is that, instead of Trent taking out his aggressions on me, and getting mine out of me in the process, it'd be you. Or is that what you want?" The glare she leveled at him was simultaneously inquisitive and accusatory, as if she'd asked having already known the answer. "Is that it? You just want to get your kicks, make me bleed a little, and fuck me when it's all over, you arrogant son of a bitch?"

Had she been one of Declan's own kind, that last would've ended with a snarl, or perhaps bared teeth, but Morgan's voice only rose slightly, and as she stepped back from the table it was plain to see that she was just warming up.

"Just who the fuck do you think you are? What makes you think you can make any kind of judgment or informed statement about me or my choices? Oh, wait, right," she capitulated sarcastically. "You're my 'friend,' and you're worried, and you seem to have somehow jumped to the conclusion that I need you, or anyone else, to fucking fix me! I'm not a goddamned charity case, I'm not a fucking project, and I'm sure as hell not going to let you, or any other asshole with some grand fucking idea of how to 'save me from my tragic plight' convince me to smoke their particular brand of bullshit over another just because it happens to taste slightly different. It's all. Still. Bullshit! You don't have the faintest fucking clue what my life is like, what I do, or, most importantly, why, and it doesn't make one tiny bit of fucking difference because it doesn't fit into your tidy little 'Wolf and Herd' view of reality. Face it, Perault. If I don't have the answer, and I've been the one in my head for the past twenty years, what the fuck makes you think you've suddenly come crawling out of the woodwork to figure it out?"

She was panting softly as she gazed across the table at him fearlessly, catching her breath even as the sound of her voice still rang in his ears as clear and bright as crystal and twice as sharp. There was no question in her mind that he could, and potentially would do everything that he had said, but that was his responsibility, not hers, and she couldn't have stopped him if she'd tried.

"My life," she stated simply, "my terms."

[Owns-The-Night]

He blinked once at the look in the Enchantress' eyes, then sat stone-faced, his gaze locked on hers as she tore into him with a song of anger and defiance and rage that he felt enter him, searing her words into his ears, branding them with silver on his heart. He tasted that anger, scented her fury and emotion as though it were vibrant perfume. He felt her scorn lash into him and his hands tightened on the table, a faint golden glow forming in the back of his eyes as he made himself endure the heat of her anger.

This was who he had been aiming at, after all. This was Her, the woman whose kisses had scalded him, and whose words now scalded him further. He took it all in: all the rage she felt at him, at the world, at herself. He absorbed it into his own fathomless well of Rage, and though that well threatened to overflow, though he felt the howling lash of her storm of words as a call to murder and mayhem, he endured. He admired her, feared her, and loved her as she poured her anger onto him. In this white-hot moment her fear was forgotten, her guilt was sublimated in exquisite searing anger. The color splashed across her cheeks and decolletage stood in high contrast to the lividity of her pale skin, and the snapping hard fire of her eyes as they met his was... beautiful.

She stood there before him after finishing, panting from the adrenaline of her fury. Declan placed his hands on the table and rose. Slowly, painfully, he placed his feet on the floor and stood upright, leaning towards her over the kitchen table. The whole time, he never took his eyes away from hers, never looked away. His legs trembled a little, still a touch asleep and wanting to stay that way, but Owns-The-Night stood firm, locking his knees and daring them to give way. The faint golden fires still flickering in his eyes, he gave Morgan a crooked, eerily charming grin.

"Anyone ever tell you you're lovely when you're mad?"

[Astra D.]

"No, they haven't," she snapped tersely, his smug expression only infuriating her further. He was mocking her, and it seemed for all the world as if she was preparing to launch into another tirade... Until, that is, recognition of what he had done insinuated itself into her consciousness, somehow traversing the flaming coals of her mental pathways and remaining intact. It manifested simultaneously in the forefront of her mind and her outward appearance; luminous green eyes widened slightly, blinking rapidly as if dazed. For all that her anger was genuine, the primal rage of the Uratha and his ilk was not a defining trait of her personality, and a soul marked by the Watchtower of the Lunargent Thorn was as mercurial as the realm in which it stood. He might as well have suddenly dangled a shiny object in front of her, for all the attention she paid the argument that had been so heated only moments before.

"You're... You're standing up. Holy shit," she breathed, awed for neither the first nor the last time by what was either superhuman healing ability or an implausible tolerance for pain. "Are you okay? I mean, is it okay for you to do that? Are you supposed to be getting up yet?" She even glanced under the table to confirm that, yes, his feet were firmly planted on the floor, and whistled softly in amazement. "Is that even possible? Well, yeah, obviously it's possible, because you're doing it, but you know what I mean. How long have you been up? Have you been walking around at all? Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

[Owns-The-Night]

He winced slightly as one of his legs tried to cramp, protesting the sudden usage. A human would have required at least two weeks of physiotherapy after their spine was repaired in order to stand as he was doing, as tendons and muscles needed to become accustomed to motion and use once more. But Declan was not human. Designed to kill, crafted by some fearful hand and eye for a terrible but necessary purpose, the Uratha's body was as merciless to injury and infirmity as it was to his foes. Flashes of pain were shooting down from his hips to the soles of his feet as previously idle nerve-endings sparked into full life. Slowly, he lifted his hands from the table and swayed upright, teeth gritted and hands clenched as he dared his legs to fail him, his eyes still on Morgan's face. The golden tinge of his Rage faded, cool clear silver left in it's wake.

"I've been feeling them coming back to life since I got up this afternoon. Shooting pains, a little life where I had none earlier." He smiled wryly and winked at her. "The whole time we were talking I was feeling my legs tingling, gradually getting stronger. And you were looking so good just now I wanted to stand up and tell you so. So I gave it a shot." He grinned happily and spread his hands in a 'ta-da' motion, then his eyes went wide as he abruptly wavered and nearly fell. His hands shot out and grabbed the table, narrowly catching himself.

[Astra D.]

Morgan inhaled sharply as he wobbled, and was half a step around the table before he caught himself. Her breath hissed out softly from between her teeth, and the tension flowed slowly out of her shoulders. Grumbling, she pushed her hair back out of her eyes, tucking it back behind her ears.

"Leave it to a Ur... werewolf," she corrected, not quite able to properly mimic the unfamiliar word, "to try and hit on a girl when she's pissed." She shot him an exasperated look as he balanced against the kitchen table. "God, I can't believe I'm just saying that in casual conversation now. Werewolf. Vampire. Hell, now I'm just waiting for Frankenstein's monster to show up, maybe a mummy or two, and we'll have the whole damned group." She managed a wry grin, but having said it aloud, she started to wonder at the possibility of that actually happening. Professor McArthur had been ample proof that that there were, indeed, stranger things in heaven and earth than had been dreamt of in her philosophy.

"Well. It's good you're getting back on your feet, so to speak. I'll bet you're looking forward to getting out of the house again, huh?"

[Owns-The-Night]

"Am I fuckin' ever." Declan grinned happily despite his embarrassment at his near-fall. Take it slowly. Learning to walk again will be a bitch. Still... I should be able to run by sunset. Yeah, right. And then I'll go find that Azlu's mama and kick it's ass too. He shook his head at himself and straightened up again, this time keeping his fingertips pressed to the tabletop. Just in case. It hurt like hell: his lower back and achilles tendon were screaming at him, but it just wasn't in the werewolf's nature to quit. Even when nuzusul, and little more than a weird human, he had gutted through training exercises and live missions on a multitude of aches, sprains and even a fractured ankle one time at Fort Benning. No way was he going to give any less of himself now he was a clawed-and-fanged hunter of the night.

"Yeah... Vampires. That reminds me of the other thing we had to talk about." He met Morgan's eyes. "Lucien and Sarah." He fought the urge to try and take a step, instead opting to let the pain and weakness in his legs subside before trying any more stunts. "They're special too, as I said last night. He's a mage, like you. Sarah told me about that. She's a vampire. Calls herself a 'Dead Wolf': they're supposed to be related to us Uratha. I'm pretty sure those two are close, but I'm not sure how close. As soon as I'm able to move around without busting stitches, I'll be talking more to both of them."

[Astra D.]

"Okay," she murmured, thinking aloud as she nodded. "That makes three will-workers confirmed here on campus... Hunt, the other guy from the party... Graham, I think? And yours truly. One (bloodsucker) vampire, and three (slavering beasts of lupine death) werewolves. Christ." With the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes, she just stood there quietly, letting herself work through the slow realization creeping through her mind: no matter what she had seen, or what she could do, she still hadn't the faintest fucking clue what was really going on. None of it made sense, as if the weavings of Fate had become hopelessly tangled and skewed over the last few days, obscuring any discernible pattern.

Her hands dropped, and her eyes opened again, blinking away the tiny explosions of residual color that left strange shapes lingering in her field of vision.

"I am so in over my head," she muttered to herself before slumping heavily back into the chair. Maybe I'll check the cards later, see what they have to say.

[Owns-The-Night]

He watched her carefully, wondering at her ability to process all the sudden changes. He was self-aware enough to admit that he wasn't a terribly cognitive person. He didn't rely on his brain to adjust to shifts in his environment so much as he relied on instinct, riding the wave and going with the flow of things. He did not feel the need that most intelligent humans did to try and stop the ride so they could work out what was going on. He worked it out as he went. Sure, that approach created a whole different set of problems, but it did mean he was seldom caught flat-footed. "Better to react swiftly and decisively than to stand still." was his mindset.

"I'm sorry for dumpin' shit on you like this. But it's somethin' I thought you needed to know." He gingerly walked around the table to her, a step at a time, gritting his teeth against the stabs of pain and leaning heavily on his hands. Standing over her, he wanted to kneel down and give her a hug, but that would be impossible right now. So the werewolf did what he could: set a large hand gently on her right shoulder, a reassuringly solid anchor to the physical world.

[Astra D.]

Morgan was not, and had never been, the sort of person given to excessive contemplation. It wasn't that she didn't worry, or think about what she was doing, but more often than not she moved on impulse, rather than planning or forethought. It couldn't properly be called instinct, either, because there was no reliance on genetic predisposition or generations of primal behavior ingrained into her body's physical responses. Rather, it was her way to simply act spontaneously, for good or ill, based solely on the whim of the moment.

When he'd made his way slowly around the table, and his hand came to rest on her shoulder, the first thing that passed through her mind was the first thing she did. Dark hair spilled like ink around her face as her forehead came to rest against his side. She breathed quietly, deeply, as much enjoying the companionable silence as the physical presence of another person. They did not, and could not fully understand the other's view of the world, but it was nice, at least, to be reminded that she was not alone.

[Owns-The-Night]

He gently squeezed Morgan's shoulder as her hair brushed against his skin. He too had come to rely on the company of another, if only emotionally. Long-dormant instincts and emotions were waking up, beginning physiological and psychological changes in the Uratha that were as yet unfelt and unnoticed. But here and now, the future was another country. Here and now was a moment of peace and quiet between friends. Something had brought the individual storms that were their lives to this room. Thunder had rolled, lightning had struck, and wounds had been opened. But in this calm after the rage and pain, there was mending.