City of Shadows Mux City of Shadows Mux

Log:The Great Roach Chase
Moon Moon gonna get the thing!
Players Colt, Ethan, Solomon as ST	June 02, 2022 Colt and Ethan go to chase down one of the giant roaches. The results from that don't quite go as smoothly as expected, but they manage to catch a live specimen and deliver it to Solomon. Solomon and the gang follow the roach back to its nest, and the trio find more than they bargained for. Deciding to go find reinforcements, the trio leave before they're spotted.
So, it turns out that tracking roaches - even giant acid-oozing roaches - in the middle of a city that has, let's face it, several million of the damn things is not as easy as it might look. Ethan and Colt spend hours (probably not all at once) beating feet in various neighborhoods, getting really strange looks from the locals - half of which try to sell them drugs, and the other half of which ask if they're real estate developers and hoping for tips on the next gentrification target. And while they do see plenty of roaches, they don't see GIANT roaches. It's almost starting to look like that dozen was maybe a fluke, or a weird random reality fuck up like what sometimes happens in this weird world. But then, as they're driving just after the sun went down, out of the corner of his eye, Colt spots exactly what they're looking for. A giant roach, half buried in a garbage bag it's gnawed open, little back legs just twitching with excitement as it digs out garbage to eat. Only one is seen for now, but it's the _only one_ they've seen. There are a few people on the street; a gang of twenty-somethings that all seem to be dressed with the same general color scheme are drinking beers on a nearby stair, laughing and talking to each other. About seven, and at the moment, they don't seem to pay any attention to the truck. “Nope, just trying to find an apartment for my niece,” Ethan had said, every time that gentrification question came in, easygoing. He doesn’t want to inject anxiety into any of these communities, and he’s certainly talked to enough people trying to find apartments for nieces or brothers. But at the moment he’s just driving the truck, murmur-singing along to whatever’s on the radio—he let Colt pick. This hunt hasn’t frustrated him at all yet. If anything not meeting up with loads and loads of people who are distressed by giant roaches strikes him as a net positive. It means the problem might still be addressable. Ethan tends to dress to blend. The jeans are clean and nice. They’ve been subtly altered to fit his frame better. His gray t-shirt is just a gray t-shirt, and the dark blue button-up with rolled up sleeves has received the same treatment. His lace-up black boots are unremarkable. Cheap watch with a brown band; brown belt. The kind of clothes one could wear to most places without being turned away, unless it was a business or formal function or kind of place. Functional and comfortable for being a person whose job is basically: monster. Who hunts worse monsters. Colt is dressed in old, comfortable looking jeans that were probably once actually blue, but have faded to a pale color somewhere between blue and white, frayed patches showing skin in certain places. It looks exactly like they would have belonged in the early nineties, or the re-iterations of the style that crop up every five years or so. Over that, he wears a gray t-shirt with a picture of a laughing man holding a cleaver, the caption proudly declaring, "You can't have manslaughter without laughter!" As usual, he's in Converse shoes, light and easy to move in without standing out too much. He looks out the window, biting on his knuckle as he considers their next play. "What do you think?" he asks the other man. "Stealth, or scatter?" He looks over his shoulder at the driver, and then to the people gathered around the street. "Fewer witnesses, but anything big we do to scare the sheep are gonna scare the bug." A beat. "Also, dude. Why didn't we just rob an Orkin truck?" One of the young people on the street corner looks over as the truck trundles by. He catches sight of Ethan. And it's definitely _Ethan_ that makes his face go from jovial and relaxed to...first shock. Then outrage. He reaches over and punches the guy next to him, who turns with a curse on his lips -- until the first guy points at the truck. Second guy does a double take, and within moments, there are seven, tipsy, and increasingly _angry_ people staring at Ethan like the guy ran over their moms with Baby. And oh, as they stand up, it becomes clear that at least three of them are packing. Ethan realizes that he’s attracted some attention and sighs, even as he parks the truck, flipping the stick into the appropriate position. “I don’t know. We should have. These guys maybe wouldn’t have tried to bother Orkin men. I wonder what the hell they want now. I don’t recognize them.” He’s already scrutinizing the leader. Sometimes when he does he can figure out what a person really wants, and sometimes that makes life easier. He just rolls down the window, arching an eyebrow at them as they approach, body language relaxed and communicating he hasn’t the foggiest idea what they want, but is both willing to hear them out and unafraid. “Gentlemen.” Colt looks out the window, then to Ethan. "Guessing they're not your fan club." He preses his mouth a little tighter, looking as they point, stare, fight. "Maybe you fucked their girlfriend or something." A short pause. "Or hell, one of them. You do a lot of one night stands, Moon Moon?" He glances over his shoulder at the younger werewolf, that grin widening a bit. Still, he gestures to the door. "Well. Let's see what you got. How you gonna handle this one?" The seven guys are spreading out, encircling the truck. "You, Donny, what the _fuck_ are you doing back in our neighborhood, man? We _told_ you what was gonna happen. We fucking warned you, and now you come strolling up like we ain't shit? Like we ain't worth _respect_? Well, fuck you. We' gonna teach you some respect." The leader is one of the oldest; he might be late twenties, or a baby-faced thirties. Decent build, angry face. Yeah, they really seem offended at this Donny guy. But they're looking at Ethan. And one of them raises the gun and _shoots Baby_. Just straight up shoots her. A bullet hole right through one side of the bed. Their version of a warning shot, maybe. The bullet punches clean through the sidewall, leaving a neat little whole in one, and a dent in the other side. Ethan handwibbles at Colt when asked how many one-night stands he has. And peers at the men to see if he maybe did get busy with someone in that pack of people. Asked what he got he gives a wan smile and opens his mouth to handle this the calm, reasonable way. But when that gunshot rings out, he loses *all* his goddamn equanimity, snarling his way into Dalu without a second’s thought. He leans out the car and growls, in this low, intense, furious growl, “First of all. My name’s not Donny. Second of all, you shoot my car again, you piece of shit, and I’ll send you back to your daughter in pieces, we clear?” Maybe in the confusion they just didn’t clearly see what Ethan looked like. Right? Maybe their eyes played some tricks when they saw him as way less buff than this. His eyes gleam like blue ice. He doesn’t even think to include Colt in the threat. He’s seeing too much red at the moment. He’s not given to temper as a rule, but…there are exceptions. The gunshot *certainly* has Colt's attention. He, too, is out the door, shifting smoothly between the time he touches the handle and the time that his feet hit the pavement. All six and a half feet of him, hard muscles and imposing, angular features more suited to a predator than a man, that 'Manslaugter' shirt stretched across his breast like a flag announcing his intent. And he just gives the men his very best smile, incisors elongated just enough to look imposing, eyes flashing that gold-yellow of a wolf's eyes in the dark. "That," he says, "was definitely the wrong move." These are not cowardly men. Every one of them has faced death before they really should have, and most of them don't think they'll live to see their thirtieth birthday anyway, so why be afraid? And yet. The face that leans out the window of the truck bypasses all that lived experience and reaches for an atavistic reaction. Something inside these guys wakes up and starts whispering that maybe, just _maybe_, they are not the apex predator in this situation. And another thing these guys aren't is stupid. When that voice whispers, they listen, even through the haze of beer and indignation. The leader stutters to a halt, suddenly wanting to be _anywhere but here_. But also needing to preserve his face. He goes stiff and defensive, but takes a careful step back from the truck. Then he punches the guy next to him, the first guy to see the truck and screams at you, "You stupid asshole! That ain't fucking Donny! Why you gotta be fucking around about that?" The other guys take the scapegoat offered, and snarl at their poor spotter, who sputters something about _but it looked just like him_. Nobody's offering to apologize, but they're all edging away from the van and guns are getting lowered. Not put away, because both Colt and Ethan look...terrifying, but nobody wants to provoke them, either. Ethan gets the rest of the way out of the truck, watching them go. He sure as fuck won’t stop them. He folds his arms and stands there as if to silently encourage their scattering. He’s pretty pissy at the scapegoat too, so he doesn’t intervene. Later he might be horrified that he offered to rip someone limb from limb over a truck, but right now? Right now the minute they’re gone he paces a moment and then checks the damage, muttering: “Shooting my truck.” Has he…forgotten the roach? “Damn lowlifes, shoot my truck.” Might have. Colt looks over at the truck, too. Mostly to make sure that their ride hasn't been completely incapacitated in case they need to make a quick exit. He *has* seen Alien. And Arachnophobia. Speedy retreat vehicles? Essential. After a moment, though, he gives a soft clearing of his throat to Ethan. Not an admonishment, really. Just a call to focus on the task at hand, nodding silently to the mouth of the alley where the roach was seen. He takes a few steps in that direction, staring at the men as they work out amongst themselves who was in the wrong. Stepping out in front of him seems about as good an idea as stepping in front of a decently-moving Mack truck, and probably would have about the same results, that gaze says. Or tries to. He might be a little too creeped out by the bitey acid bug to really sell it, primal monster or no. The truck doesn't appear to have its operational capacity damaged. It's just got a bullet hole, now. Really, it could be considered an aesthetic. The seven guys continue to retreat, refusing to admit the relief they feel that these two weird guys aren't following them. They disappear down an alleyway, and none of them are ever going to admit to each other what they might have thought they saw...or the nightmares they're likely to have tonight. Meanwhile, the roach! It's still there. It must have startled at the gunshot, because it's retreated to the open mouth of the closest alley, its little twitching antennae registering uncertainty. That was PRIME food in that bag. But...but...it skitters back into the alleyway just a little further. Is food worth the danger of being squished?? Is life worth living if it can't stop to eat delicious garbage? Hefty philosophical questions here, for a bug. Ethan gives himself a shake at that little clearing of the throat. He nods once, letting it go. And reaches to gently and slowly start removing tools from the toolbox he keeps in the back of the truck. They’re going to need a place to put a live sample. And. He’s not stealthy. Meanwhile, sometimes he thinks Colt can legit hide in a scrap of shadow roughly the size of a towel. If they’re going to sneak up on the bug, Colt’s going to be the person actually capable of making that happen. Colt is usually pretty good at staying hidden, it's true. He keeps to the shadows as much as possible, and is light on his feet. It's hard to pick him out of a crowd. In this particular case, though, he can't use his best advantage -- the ability to be the four-pawed hunter. There are too many eyes still on him, and he's restricted to the far clunkier, less efficient hunter. At least until he gets to the mouth of the alley. Of course, the roach isn't going to let him get that far. Insects seem to have preternatural senses for this kind of thing. It spots Colt dead away and starts to skitter as fast as its little buggy legs will take it. "Fuck," Colt mutters, already moving, feet pounding the pavement as he tries to keep up. Skitter skitter skitter! The roach doesn't know why the evil two-legged thing is chasing it when all it's trying to do is have a little dinner, but clearly, this is its life right now. So it uses all its six legs and ability to flatten itself, and just zzzzzp! Darts under a nearby dumpster. There it freezes, convinced that now, as it cannot be seen, it is safe. Besides, there's no way a human is going to fit in the two or three inch clearance between the bottom of the dumpster and the pavement. SAFE AND SOUND. Oh. Whoops. Well, if Colt is running Ethan runs too. Box in one hand. But. Well. Moon Moon gets there, and looks at Colt, tilts his head, and starts doing Mission Charades. In this case: Points at dumpster, points at self, mimes lifting, points at Colt, mimes scooping…tilts head, which means question-mark? As if the roach might hear and understand their plan and thwart it. Colt has been at this for a while now. It's not the first time that something has skittered into a smaller space thinking that it would have the chance to evade him. And it's not the first time he's found a workaround for it, either. It's just that the workaround tends to *suck*, is all. Taking a breath, he steels himself for what's about to happen, putting on as much speed as he can. And Colt is *fast*. He's fast, and strong, and moving with an awful lot of mass right now. Moving with enough mass, in fact, that turning to the side and running a few steps along the wall aren't even an issue. Using the wall to *jump*, leverating himself bodily, like a torpedo, at the dumpster, slamming into it with his shoulder with all the force he can manage. Which is considerable when you're not worried about which bones you're about to break in this reckless, stupid thing. The dumpster *slides*, Colt moving down to land on his feet with grunt, rolling out of the way so that Ethan is clear to grab the damn thing. A pack of hunters, working in unison. And after Colt gives that impressive display, Ethan darts right in, falling into his role with barely a thought. The tool box is used to scoop and then he slams the lid shut and clips it with a decisive little clang. “Got him! Ronald Roachgan is ready for transport.” A quick, decisive nod, and a swift exhale. “Lets get him out of here and back to the Doc before his buddies show up to try to stage a rescue.” Putting nothing past these roaches. Nothing. Past. Them.* From inside, there is frantic skittering and the feel of a large, insectile body throwing itself against various walls, then climbing those walls, to try and find a way out. SAD ROACH. Colt looks up when the lid to the toolbox is slammed closed, listening to Ethan's description of the situation. He blinks a moment, and then answers with a simple, eloquent: "Ow." Whether it's for his shoulder, which just took the brunt of the force necessary to move a dumpster that weighs more than he does, or for the sheer badness of Ethan's pun, the world may never know. Giving Ethan a nod, he gets to his feet, holding his shoulder in one hand. It'll heal soon enough. They both know it. But he's allowed to be a big baby about it. It's not *his* ban not to show weakness. "I'm driving," he tells Ethan. "You get to hold bugzilla." “Fair.” Ethan actually looks concerned for a moment as Colt is a big baby about his shoulder, before shaking himself and remembering they were all like. Literally on fire recently and walked away smiling. He tosses Colt the keys. And makes no opine on whether he thought he was hearing a critique of his comedic skills or the shoulder-to-dumpster experience. Also, showing no weakness is a good ban to have when one is riding shotgun with bugzilla in a box on his lap. Thrashing around. He dials Solomon to let him know they’re on the way again though, because holy hell does he not want to hold onto this thing longer than he has to. Solomon picks up somewhere around the second ring and suggests that they meet on the edge of campus; he gives a specific spot. There's a few parking spaces next to a little wooded area; it's not nice enough to use as a make out spot, and not far enough away from the campus patrols to be a decent drug sale point. So, it's actually nice, quiet, and pleasant. Solomon is dressed down, although from the wrinkles in the t-shirt he's wearing, he might have had to hastily change from Work Clothes to Following Roach Clothes. He's sitting on a small bench, drumming his fingers on his thighs and watching the road. Colt pulls into the parking space, turning the truck off and looking over to Ethan. "You alright, Champ?" He looks at the toolbox with a little grimace, mostly rembering pincers, and acid, and how a very thin sheet of metal seems to be separating those two terrifying things from just about the worst place he can think of to be holding that. But Solomon is there, and it's best if they don't delay. Who knows how the magic works, or if it takes a certain time, distance, phase of the moon and alignment of the stars in comparison to sunspot activity. Whatever. Closing the door behind him, he hits the little lock button on the truck, moving around to the front to inspect the bullet hole with a shake of his head. "Assholes." “I’m fine,” Ethan assures, staring straight ahead. He keeps peering between his feet as if trying to decide if he could just put the box at his feet. But then if something goes wrong, like the acid overwhelming the box, he might not feel it before the roach darts out and starts wreaking havoc in the cab while Colt is trying to drive. His sense of duty keeps the box in the Worst Place, but tribal ban or not, there’s a soft sigh of relief when he can stand up and just hold onto it instead. Colt’s commentary earns a quiet, mournful nod, and then he lifts his hand to Solomon and starts heading his way. When the lights of the big black truck cut through the darkness, Solomon stands up. He returns Ethan's lift of the hand with one of his own, and the thinnest of smiles as his eyes flicker from Ethan, to the tool box, to Colt, and back again. "Doesn't look like you sustained any casulties during the great roach hunt." A gleam of eagerness in the blue-grey eyes. "In there, I presume?" As if in answer, the roach scrabbles around. Or maybe it just doesn't like being moved. Either way, it is unhappy, and there's a thump as it flings itself at the lid of the box, futilely. Colt gives a shake of his head. "Minor injuries," he answers. "Nothing that can't be healed." He leaves off the fact that there were almost casualties on the *other* side. So far, they've managed to evade any police called to investigate the gunshot, and they don't exactly look inauspicious, so the wolf's answers are the kind that could best be considered *laconic*, even if you can't shut him up normally. Glancing to Ethan, he gives the toolbox a little nod. "Yeah. In there." The line of his mouth presses a little tighter, and without thinking too much about it, he takes a step back. In case it's feeling vengeful. “And you can take charge of it any time,” Ethan says, offering the box to Solomon hopefully. “As this one has itself a little personality.” And for a wonder he doesn’t jump in to gripe that Baby took a *gunshot wound.* No, at the moment he’s pretty focused on getting this thing where it needs to go. No stepping back for him, but he sure as shooting holds it out. Solomon takes the toolbox. "Most insects have personality, Mr. Weaver, once you take the time to get to know them. The nymphs are growing fine, by the way. They're magnificent creatures, really. Venomous, large, voracious. I tested various insecticides on a few of them; they do seem vulnerable to boric acid and the more professional concoctions, but the doses have to be increased, and boric acid powder takes time to work. Anything toxic enough to kill them outright through spray is going to be _very_ toxic for people." As he chatters, he puts the toolbox between his feet, not opening it. Instead, he starts humming that melody again - a simple one, soothing and repetitive. Like before, there are three rounds of it. At the end, the skittering inside the box dies, and he opens it up, extending a hand. "Come here." The roach flutters to his hand and skitters to his arm, remaining docile as Solomon lifts it up to look it in its buggy little eyes, his smile as gentle as if he were the creepiest Disney Princess ever. "You know your way home, I bet. I want you to go there, but slowly enough that we can follow you." Colt's tight lipped smile turns into an outright frown, inch by inch, as Solomon goes on about how very venemous and large and *resistant to killing* the little nymphs are, like a proud papa. "Super," he answers in that flat, unamused way that suggests it is *not at all super*. And he gives a little shudder when Princess Periplaneta skitters right up to Solomon's arm, the man talking to it in the same way that some Uratha can talk to beasts and birds. He gives a look to Ethan, full of anxiety, "Really hope that he's not being cast as Burke in this little re-enactment." “Yes, how could I possibly have forgotten to ask after the welfare of the nest of baby evil things,” Ethan asks dryly, stepping back by Ethan in one smooth motion so he can put some distance between Solomon and the Princess, himself. “This might be another occasion for the flamethrower,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head and pulling a face. “But I guess we’d better see what the lay of the land looks like. We’re going to need more than us to take out this nest and we haven’t even begun to get supplies yet.” His grimace says he, too, hopes Solomon isn’t going to go Burke on them. "They're not evil," Solomon murmurs as he crouches to let the roach scurry into the grass. "They're just insects, doing what insects do. If anything, they're the victim of whatever _did this_ to them. Their form was adapted to their life, and someone - or something - decided that they were just _material_ to be changed and twisted to a form better suited to serve. It wasn't their _fault_, and it's not their fault that they don't have pretty feathers or fluffy fur, and nobody's gonna make a fucking YouTube video about how cute they were." Okay, he started off calm but he's ranting by the end and maaaaaybe it's not entirely about the bugs anymore. Then he breaks off, takes a deep breath. The bug is scurrying away. In a more normal tone, Solomon asks, "Can your truck fit three? I maintain an empathic connection with it; it's gonna go as the roach crawls, and I think we'll be better off following in the car. Who knows how far away it is." "Truck can fit three in the *back* with plenty of elbow room," Colt answers quickly enough, crossing his arms over his chest. "Trust me." And then, he suddenly seems to realize what he just *said*, looking to Ethan with a quiet, "I had it steam cleaned, ok?" Because that's not a conversation they're going to have later at all. Nope. Moving to the truck, though, he opens the passenger door, relinquishing control of the actual driving to the owner of the vehicle once more. "How far do those things normally travel from their nest?" he asks Solomon. "And how long does your, uh. Mojo or whatever work?" Colt…may be off the hook for the sudden TMI. Especially as he did have steam cleaning performed on the, ah, aftermath. Because Ethan watching Solomon through his rant, and his expression softens into something empathetic and chagrined. “My apologies,” he says quietly. “Of course there’s more to them than whether or not they’re conventionally attractive. And it’s not their fault their hard to understand sometimes.” He slides behind the wheel of the truck, and adds: “Should we be considering humane removal options? Put them all up in some stretch of somewhere that nobody will see them and nobody will care?” He does grimace as he contemplates what he’s saying…and the conversation *Colt* might want to have with *him* for even asking this question. Solomon's expression goes blank and guarded as Ethan's softens, and he dismisses the apology with a sudden, sharp gesture. "Don't apologize, Mr. Weaver, unless you've done something wrong." It's clear why he has lots of friends. He skitters off to the truck to get inside, and says, "Don't be ridiculous. They're giant roaches. Kill as many as you can. Some will probably get away, no matter how hard you tryWith any luck, whatever did this didn't make permanent changes to their DNA and it'll only last a generation. But they're roaches. They're not capable of being _evil_, but they're still pests. We don't want to cultivate a new, gigantic species of the damn things." Ethan blows out his cheeks as he sticks his foot in his mouth a second time. Sometimes the right words flow like butter over a hot griddle, and sometimes he’s left to fumble and stumble and grow awkward as hell, and damned if the latter doesn’t just sort of *creep up on him.* Solomon shoots down the question and his gusty sigh of relief probably doesn’t help matters. “Oh thank Luna,” he mutters, and starts the car, putting his low lights on so he can follow a roach. And off they go! Somewhere in the drive, it probably occurs to at least ONE of the three that starting in the neighborhood they picked up the roach might have been a great idea, because the roach goes directly back there. This involves crossing quite a few city streets, and even one of the major arteries, all based on Solomon's hasty directions - which he is getting by a tenuous magical connection to a roach who is mostly traveling through sewers. It is an EXCITING drive, and Ethan leaves a series of _very_ angry drivers behind him, complete with honking horns and threats screamed out of windows. Fun! They're reached the neighborhood again, and are heading towards the part of town where there's an unpleasant amount of toxic waste and everyone knows it, when Solomon yells, "STOP!" Can Colt track the roach just fine through what might be impossible conditions, if he puts his mind to it? Certainly. Is he going to enhance his senses to track the damn thing through a *sewer* while Solomon has a mind meld on it? Hell no. He leans his seat back, closing his eyes and looking for all the world like he's going to take a nap. Which he promptly does. Even with Solomon's called out directions and the aggressive driving maneuvers that probably leaves Baby out of alignment and with a few dented rims, he manages to sleep. He sleeps right up until the sudden STOP! The rapid change in speed causes him to lurch forward, the seatbelt restraining him but also causing a tiny bit of pull to one side. Pull taht causes his head to bounce off the frame of the truck, above the window. There's a small groan from the man, and a growl in his throat as he puts a hand to his forehead, repeateing his earlier: "Ow." Ethan lets out an inchoate growl as he slams on the brakes. He is looking distinctly *grumpy*. And the whole drive came with running commentary like: “Well try using your dadgum turn signal then, Honda.” And: “Jesus! Fuck! God damnit Kia, that’s what slow lanes are for!” “Augh mother eff!” He doesn’t flip any return birds though. He’s too busy concentrating on this very bumpy drive and muttering how he never thought he’d have to learn how to drive like a cop to do this ‘mother-effing-dadgum-werewolf-shit.’ Solomon was expecting the abrupt stop so he has one hand out to stop him from being hurled towards the window. There's a low murmur of, "That was fun. We should do that again." But MOST of his attention is on that connection with the roach. He points out a window towards a large, completely dark abandoned building; it's about six stories tall, and half-destroyed sign nearby says "Hyatt--" and the rest is lost to time and decay. A chainlink fence surrounds it all, dark and rusted, and the dimly-seen sign attached to fence declares NO TRESPASSING and CONDEMNED BY ORDER OF COOK COUNTY DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH. Of course, the fence has also been cut in a dozen places for squatters to get in and out. "It's going in there," Solomon says. "I'll stop it so it doesn't..." his face twitches. "I said _stop_." He's not talking to Ethan. "Hey. Hey, fucking LISTEN--augh!" His head snaps back like he was just slapped, and he blinks several times, stunned. "...it's gone. Something broke my connection to it. Or, no. Had a _stronger_ connection to it than I could." Colt looks to Solomon. "Something whammied your mojo?" His brow wrinkles a bit at that, and he looks to the building, nails scratching reflexively along his arm for a moment, like he can already feel the bugs crawling on them. "I hate this already. Fantastic." He closes his eyes, taking a moment to open himself up to his Spirit side. It's always an act of will to shift his senses from one to the other without forcing it. When he opens his eyes, though, he squints cautiosly onto the other side, trying to make out what there is to be seen. "It's too thick for me," he tells Ethan. "Everything is getting lensed. Looks like a goddamn fishbowl. You make anything out?" Colt experiences resistance as lensing and distortion. Some experience fog, or overwhelming sensations. Every werewolf is different Ethan’s ire flows away as he stares at this place. “Do you think whatever it was knows you were controlling it?” But he shivers as he takes a deep breath and opens up to his Spirit side as well, just as Colt once taught him. “It’s bad, Colt. It’s real bad.” There’s no mirth or anger now, just serious worry. “It’s seething with Corruption, and I see roach spirits. Thousands. Devouring anything they can touch, even if that means devouring each other. I think we had officially better oughta get an Ithaeur on this. A Bone Shadow at that. This is…” His fingers grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as if he’s physically stopping himself from peeling right out of there and getting away while the getting is good. Solomon reaches up and rubs at his temples. "They did, indeed, whammy me. I have no idea if they sensed me, or just naturally took control, though. Or even if it's some sort of...area effect. I don't get anything through the connection except vague location information and whether the animals are injured, that sort of thing." He peers at the building, then back at the werewolves. "Can you see through walls? Or...auras of some sort?" He's definitely taking mental notes here, despite the throbbing headache he's now got. Colt gives a little shake of his head. "Into a different world, in a manner of speaking." He tries to figure out how to explain it. "Think of it like -- a frequency." He wibbles his hand a bit, indicating that it's not a perfect analogy. "We can see visible light, but the visible light we see is just a tiny faction of the potential wavelengths. Some of them are so small they pass right through us, some of them are so big they pass right over the entire planet and we barely notice. Same general concept, here," he notes. "Except in this case, we have to look through the mesh on the microwave to see what the big waves are doing inside, keeping it all contained *over there*. And it's too fucking dirty to make out clear." A glance to Ethan. "Thousands? Like, legit thousands? You thinking htat it's a horde spirit, and big-ass, or little mote spirits?" Not that there's too much difference if they all band together. He turns his attention back to the building. "We only know one of those," he admits. "Alex. And we might need some muscle too." “Motes. Maybe a bigger spirit, the thing that cut Solomon’s connection. But they wanna cross over, and that doesn’t bode well.” Ethan exhales and mutters, “There’s a good chance we’re going to be fishing roach Claimed people out of the local homeless population for months no matter what we do, unless we’re catching this *real* early. Christ. Alex. Alex and anyone we can get, as far as I’m concerned, this is…way beyond friggin’ *Borax.*” He turns the car back on though and starts backing out. “We can’t stay here. We’re not ready to do anything about this right this second and every second we stay invites notice.”