pack?

Rafael

Somehow word gets to Morgan. Maybe a message left with a Guardian, who calls her cousin, who knows a guy, who knows the guy Morgan's shacking up with, and -- word gets to her. Wolf wants to meet. They work out a plan. Time: now. Place: here.

Semi-disreputable burger & cheap steaks joint couple blocks past the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception: buzzing neon OPEN sign in the window, dirty wind-torn awning over the door. Wolf fits right in with his battered motorcycle jacket, heavy-soled boots. Bike's parked outside getting wet in the rain. He's sitting by a window, toward the back. Instinctively likes sitting where he can see everyone and everything.

Glass of coke in front of him. And a menu, which is a photocopy of a photocopy, the words blurred but still legible.

Morgan

She's not hard to track down, when you go looking in the right places.

A girl (woman, monster) like Morgan Roche, she has a tendency to stand out in a crowd. It's that long, wild red mane of hair of hers; its the long, lanky limbs and the brilliant clarity of her eyes; blue as could be. Clear and vibrant and entirely capable of pinning a grown man in place when they turned on him in that certain way. Word gets to her; this nearly-nineteen year old warrior that the Silver Fang wants to meet.

Says a place, names a time and five minutes; ten minutes after the agreement the dingy little place gets a new customer. The buzzer sounds; the tinny bell jingles and in washes fields of verdant green and the crackle-burn of energy. She shakes rain off the jacket she's wearing; old, battered denim over a navy shirt. There's holes in the bottom; fraying clear through so slivers of her belly tease; pale skin; Morgan had the palest skin that somehow threw off the energy she bought.

Cast doubt on this girl being what she felt like. Couldn't be; never plausible to think she was a monstrous thing under those clothes; beneath those freckles and fiery hair.

She stands in the doorway for a beat, Firebrand; shakes off the rain water and does it with this cursory; sweeping look that's more predatory than anything affecting human. Spies Wolf in his corner and the edge of her mouth curls up; recognition; satisfaction. Quarry found. The Fiann prowls over and slides in across from him. She smells like the rain and some vaguely (probable) no-name brand of soap.

"How're the burgers?"

This is his greeting from the redhead - all practicality, Morgan. She's hungry. Unfolds the menu. Darts her eyes all over the other Ahroun. "Heard y'were lookin' for me."

Rafael

Could be read as a powerplay. Wolf sitting in the corner, seeing but unseen, at least for those first few seconds. Sure as hell doesn't get up to greet his peer. Doesn't really seem like the sort to play games of dominance like that, though. Probably just sits there because he can't be fucked to get up.

Anyway: she does see him. Doesn't even take her very long. Wolf burns with a quiet, deep flame, after all. Hard to miss him in any crowd.

She comes over. His hands are palm-down on the table; he's leaning back and relaxed. Lifts one of those palms just a couple inches: something like a wave.

"Decent. Steaks are pretty good too for the price." Red wolf slides in across from him. He's rather dark, given the silver-lined heritage: dark hair, dark stubble, dark eyebrows. Green eyes. He's studying her as she studies him.

"Yeah. Figured we should talk." Beat. "Think I met your past life."

Morgan

Pity the poor waitress that bustles over with more reluctance than usual to wait on them. To shoot edgy little looks at Rafael and keep her hands wrapped tight around that pad as Morgan rattles off an order. Burger. Fries and perhaps worthy of a twinge of amusement - Diet Soda. Waits until the human has moved away to cast Wolf this curious-come-confused frown.

The rain dribbling down the glass beside them canting shadows over their forms. There's a drip somewhere; inside or out is anyone's guess.

"Yeah?" Not all Garou would have such a monosyllabic reaction to that news; would startle or stare or burst into laughter at the idea. She doesn't laugh, the Ahroun. She does frown at him for a long minute or two and lean back; bracing both elbows along the back of the chair behind her. It's a very alpha gesture, much of Morgan's behavior tends toward it. She isn't one, never seemed terribly inclined to demand she be one to anyone - at least, not in this city so far - but there's a command of space that speaks to the spark of it.

She owns her place; owns her side of the table.

Stares across at Wolf; lets her eyes tick over his face; blinks once in this slow, assessing way and then drops forward. Sits it; straightens. "You've been places, then." Not a question, that quiet, certain way she phrases it. Turns it into one after the fact, though. A hesitant: "Wasn't fightin' for the wrong side or anything, was I - them." A schism of uncertain irritation like an itch flickering across her face. "Figure I'd have heard but y'never know. Got a lot of ancestors."

Rafael

Nothing about the wolf screams alpha. Or omega. Or anything in between. Plenty about him screams lone wolf. Guarded, distant, wary. Prone to violence if cornered.

He leans back as she does. They stare at each other. Eyes lock maybe a beat too long. Then a blink -- him, her, doesn't really matter. Yet, anyway.

"No. Hell no. You were on the right side." Then he smirks. "Cub, though. Had to rescue you."

Morgan

There's a snort. Morgan's mouth twists into a squiggle of momentary animation. Her eyes are bright as she shakes her head, lets out a brief, sharp huff that sounds a lot like resignation. "A Cub. Figures as much. Had trouble as one in this life, figures it'd hold true f'the others." She looks out the window into the rainy evening; catches sight of her own reflection cast back by the lights within.

That long hair; the cut of her jaw. Her pale skin. Her reflection wearing that same expression that's lingering as she looks back at the other wolf.

"So why were y'back then, anyway?" The female's drink arrives; set down on top of a napkin as it sweats; ice cubes rattling as Morgan starts playing with a straw; stirring it around for something to occupy her hands. "Find it hard t'believe it'd be just to rescue my other self."

Rafael

Wolf has a moment to regard his momentary companion. Tries to find in her some thread of similarity to that other female of Stag he knows. Thinks he sees it there -- just a glimmer of it. Something about that air of wildness and delicateness; the savage and the arcane. Balance is different, though. It's another wolf across the table, no mistake about that.

"Probably weren't a cub forever," he offers. "Probably did damn well. Better than me. I died as a Cliath, that life."

Waitress stops by. Drinks arrive. Wolf breaks off, orders. Gets what passes as a new york strip steak here, medium-rare. Baked potato on the side, loaded. His drink gets refilled too.

Waitress moves off; he waits til she's out of earshot. Conversation continues. Wolf's eyes hood. Shrugs.

"Long story. Sort of personal to get into right now. Thought we ought to talk though. Since you and I keep running into each other in battle, and now it turns out we've met before too." The smirk's back. It's not mischief. It's just humor, darkened. "Feels a little like fate."

Morgan

"Always gotta wonder what makes the difference between who does and doesn't. M'Uncle's been fightin' forever in another Sept. Still doin' it. Still on t'front line. My parents didn't even make it to 40 between them." There's a pause there as the Ahroun watches the food arrive; watches the other wolf dig into what he ordered; feels the roll and rumble of her own belly reminding her she needs to eat. That it's been too long since she did. She's no street rat Morgan, but she does live on the raggedy edge much of the time.

Finds her means to get by the way the low down, the uneducated do; odd jobs; favors; the kindness in some respects of her Kin. What cost did protection from the plague of the Wyrm run, anyway - she stood between blood of her blood and death more than once - took up the offer of a roof and a warm bed in recompense. In human terms she's a dropout; a loser who never quite made it through high school, will likely never see the inside of a college.

In Garou terms - she's one of the last of their champions. The dying breed of the Full Moon; bred for war and death. Long, peaceful lives had never really been on the table for them - either of them. Sometimes that's easy enough to see in their faces, too. In the certainty when they talk about death. It's there, to an extent, in Morgan's right now; the simple truths she offers.

There was no rhyme or reason. You lived or you died. "Maybe there's a reason we ain't died yet this time. Maybe not." A little curl of her lip. Not cruel, but - aware. But practical. "You wanna run together or somethin', Silver Fang?" There's a twinge of something teasing to that, though. The way she drawls out his tribe; marks it with her faintly accented tones as if it means something to say it. Makes it more official, somehow.

Rafael

Their food shows up remarkably quick. Nice thing about greasy spoons like this: they're quick on the turnaround. Helps too when the entire wait staff wants these two psychos out of here asap.

Neither of them seems inclined to wolf their food down and leave, though. They're talking. Having a serious, in-depth discussion. About as lengthy as Ahroun discussions get, anyway. Which means: five whole minutes between they cut to the chase.

"Yeah." Not too shy about saying it, now that it's on the table. "Not just us though. That Fang Philodox who called for packmates at the moot -- she was in my past too. And one more. Another Fianna I haven't met yet."

Morgan

It's almost comical the way Morgan's eyes light up when her food arrives, all said. She makes it a point to shake out her napkin though, to set it over her lap in a way that the very Philodox in question would no doubt appreciate in all its perfunctory articulation. It's a gesture that seems introduced more than natural to her and for a beat; the way she darts a quick, sharp look across at him, she seems unsure about even trying it in front of the other Ahroun.

As if her decorum might somehow underhand their discussions or his opinion of her worth as a fighter.

She eats a few fries first and swallows; licking grease from the edge of her mouth and chews the next with a slightly more thoughtful bent. "Avery? I kind of like her. She's fancy but she talks to me like I'm worth hearing out." There's an offhand, casual sort of shrug as she picks her burger up next in both hands; takes a bite and continues before she's entirely done chewing it in a gesture that is entirely human. Purely teenage in its gracelessness.

"Probably be good t'have a Half Moon anyway. If it's just us we'd kill everythin' and forget t'follow orders." She smiles; a touch aware, perhaps, that their last outing where they were left to their own devices to follow through on a lead had led to the prime suspect having her face eaten off.

"You talk t'Reverence of Dawn-rhya, yet?"

Rafael

Wolf leans back for his plate to be set down. Shuts up while waitress comes and goes. Leans in once she's gone, though, and there's no laying of napkins in laps. He picks up his fork and knifes, holds them in his fist like a barbarian. Starts sawing at his meat.

"Heh." Wolf's got that smirk on his face again. "So I get hot under the collar sometimes. Still keep that church down the street pretty safe.

"Nah. Wanted to talk to you first. Don't know her very well." Pause. "Don't know you well either but," and another shrug completes the sentence. "You wanna go talk to her together sometime?"

Morgan

She can't argue with the fact he doesn't know her very well. She barely knows him. Knows enough to bang on his door when she's bleeding in the street though and to expect to be let inside. Not every wolf of his tribe would have readily done so for one of Stag's.

May not even for another of their own.

Her smirk echoes his for a moment before she sobers, turns over the offer to talk to the Mistress of Challenges together about the prospect. Morgan contemplates the things she does know about Avery Chase. Knows she has a mate of Morgan's tribe. Knows she is capable in the midst of a fray; holds rank and position in the Denver Sept. There's a beat where it seems uncertain precisely what Firebrand is contemplating before she nods her assent.

Gives this little tilt of her chin. "Yeah. Let's talk t'her. I haven't ever run with a pack before." Sets her burger down (or what little was left of it) in lieu of her soda. Leans back and fiddles with the straw. The ice cubes have all but melted. "Can't promise I'll be any good at it but - " There's a shrug; a certain gleam in those clear eyes. "Better t'fight with numbers than none."

Rafael

In some ways, don't know much is a euphemism. They don't know anything about each other. Not their pasts. Not their likes and dislikes. Not their hopes, not their fears -- they don't even know one another's full names.

In other ways, they know enough. Know what it's like to trust each other with their lives, even by chance. Know what it's like to fight alongside one another.

Know one thing more, now:

"Me neither. You'll be my first packmate." Her eyes gleam; corners of his mouth quirk up. Shoves a bite of steak in his mouth, "Probably be one for the ages or a huge fucking disaster. I'll call Avery when we're done eating."