The Treaty of Taquito
| The Treaty of Taquito | |
|---|---|
"You guys ever see Aliens? Arachnaphobia?" | |
| Players |
When Ethan and Colt encounter giant cockroaches near the brownstone, they do some science of their own before turning to the expert. |
It's night, and the light pollution of the city has blocked out all but the brightest of the stars. The moon hides most of her light behind wispy clouds that are already gathering off of the shore of Lake Michigan. There's a hint of future rain on the wind that comes off the water. Mind you, around _here_ that's the kind of thing only a werewolf might smell. The stench of trash that hasn't been collected quickly enough easily overwhelms it. Few people are out and about at this time of night; just some young men gathered on a couple of street corners, making no doubt entirely legal personal transactions while wearing jackets that are a little too hot for this weather but do a great job at concealing bulges at their waists. Mostly, they're watching each other rather than looking for trouble - people don't buy drugs during shootouts, so as long as this group stays on THIS corner and that group stays on THAT corner, everything's chill. Maybe not everything. From one dark alleyway, there are the sounds of what might be a scuffle. And a high pitched, desperate squealing - something small and terrified is breaking the night's relative peace. Sometimes all a person really wants is maybe a cigarette and a taquito or something. Plus Ethan noticed his oil levels were low. Quick motor oil run at the 7-11. That is how he comes to be standing on a cracked sidewalk munching on a greasy steak and cheese, frowning at the alley. Could just be a rat. Could be *beshilu.* Colt may or may not be any number of nearby places…the current establishment shot doesn’t provide context. The text Ethan quickly sends him: ‘Alley weirdness 5 buildings down from 7-11...’ ...doesn’t provide much more, but he’s not in the habit of walking into any dodgy situations he doesn’t *live* in without telling someone where he’s going and what he’s doing. The someone is most often Colt. He’s had too much of a crash course in the fact that ‘concrete jungle’ is, perhaps, more of an apt metaphor than anyone *truly* believes. Or that being near the top of the food chain is the same thing as being ‘at the top’ of the food chain. Dropping his bag…the motor oil will be there or not when he gets back, no big…makes a cautious approach to investigate what the hell he might be hearing. Colt, of course, is in the truck. Because of course he's in the truck. Or, more specifically, standing just outside the truck smoking a cigarette. Because he doesn't smoke in Baby. There are Rules. He glances back at the truck, and then to the direction Ethan went, shaking his head. "No wonder kid is single." Except, here comes Ethan. And there goes a howl. And there *goes* Ethan, dropping the bag and wandering off down the alley like it's no big thing to *drop your shit and go alone* into an unfamiliar place. Colt sighs, dropping the cigarette and scuffing it out under foot. "Moon Moon, what are you doing?" he mutters, mostly to himself, as he takes off in the direction his Wolf-Brother went. This particular alleyway is in either rougher shape than most; there's a dumpster to one side that has rusted clean through and spilled out trash that's so old it's more of a compost heap at this point, and it looks like people have been dumping old parts, broken glass, and all manner of things here. For YEARS. Stealth proves to be impossible, and at the second step that kicks an old can out of the way by accident, that squealing rises to a sudden, panicked pitch--then goes silent. Ethan can smell a sudden hint of blood in the air. He quickly finds where it came from; there's the body of a rat still twitching on the other side of a sodden box. It's a nice sized specimen, a true sewer rat with damp gray fur and a long, rope-like tail. It is covered in some sort of small bites that are oozing blood, including the killing blow at its throat. This couldn't have been one thing. It had to have been MANY things. And they couldn't have gotten far...but Ethan doesn't _see_ anything. He just...hears. What sounds like a dozen scuttling, skittering forms, surrounding him, darting from debris to debris. But try as he might, he can't get a solid read on what they are. Just that he's pretty sure they're forming up around him. Before Ethan can figure out where the attack might be coming from, a half a dozen dark forms, each one about the size of a paperback book, rush him from different directions. Not all manage to close in; but two swarm up his body, one on each leg: german cockroaches of enormous size, clinging to his pants with serrated legs and...biting through his jeans. And just barely through his skin, setting off a burning reaction at the site. Their antennae wave wildly up at him as they try to chew through his legs. Moon Moon doesn’t panic. Storm Lords do not panic! When they yell, “MOTHER EFF!” at the top of their lungs, it is a howl of *GLORIOUS WAR* and don’t y’all forget it. So. Howl of glorious war! Followed by a…strategic negotiation! One hand frantically tries to brush bugs away, because someone mostly forgets he’s a big badass werewolf who probably has better tools. Bugs are primal. Nobody likes bugs. Nobody likes big bugs. The other waves the ¼ taquito frantically in the air for a moment. “Take the taquito. TAKE THE TAQUITO! It’s yours!” He flings that as hard as he can *away* from him. Did someone say...taquito? It's unlikely that the giant roaches understand human. But not impossible. But while the brushing only succeeds in knocking down one of the roaches (Ethan's hand brushes the carapace, which shivers against his skin like some weird combination of paper and plastic), the taquito proves effective bait: the roaches launch themselves after it, flying towards the end of the alley. Oh yes. They have _wings_. So as Colt approaches, he sees at least a dozen giant flying roaches mobbing a corner store taquito. Colt is following along, about to call out. And then? Then a dozen creepy crawlies are swarming all over Ethan, and Colt looks ready to do some *damage*... Until the taquito. The taquito gives him pause. Like a predator out of a Jurassic Park movie, his eyes follow the thing, and then follow the arc of the taquito as the things give chase to it -- in the air. "Fuck me," he mutters, "it *is* Jurassic Park..." Ethan stumbles back a few steps to Colt’s side, way too aware that the taquito bait is only going to last so long. It takes a few minutes for his brain to catch up and he shoots a quick look behind to see how many people are watching. Shaking his hand just out to the side like he can *shake* all the germs off. To Colt’s comment he can only add: “I don’t think there are enough Orkin trucks in this whole city.” It has the resigned sound of a man rolling up his sleeves mentally and emotionally. That taquito is definitely not going to last very long. The roaches have become almost a writhing ball of insectoid greed, and the smaller ones pushed to the outside are already skittering away, antennae twitching, looking for something less contested. Like that rat. They're heading in that direction now. Ethan shakes his hand, and along the way, he notices that he now has two dime-sized holes in his jeans, even though the (already healed) bites weren't that big. The edges of the holes are also...crusty. Almost burnt. Colt just watches in horror as the giant roaches tear into the taquito, then start chasing the rat. "So," he sighs. "Not Beshilu then." Couldn't be something horrifying and *known*. No. Had to go and be giant bugs. He even takes a step away from Ethan, waving that hand, before the darting of the roaches causes him to skip back a step. "Truck," he tells the other werewolf, starting a cautious, slow retreat. "We should go back to the truck." Where, hopefully, they will be too big to follow. Ethan hesitates a moment while he examines his jeans. “They spit acid too. Drip acid? I don’t know. Acid is somehow involved and I don’t like this.” Colt suggests a retreat, and he nods. “Back to the truck,” he agrees. If Colt says retreat, then he believes him. And his mind was already whirling. Sure, they could kill this swarm, but…there’s probably a *nest.* He opens his mouth, uncertain…but unsure whether to express that uncertainty, either. He just keeps backing up, as if sudden movements might draw attention back to them. The roaches don't appear to notice, or care, now that the werewolves are retreating. They've polished off the taquito, and now have huddled around the rat corpse, giving it the same treatment. There are bones involved, so this might take a little longer, buuuuuut...they're doing a pretty good job of chewing through it. The truck does not currently appear under siege by giant roaches. Colt gives a short nod. "Yeah. Let's -- go -- figure out what to do." Beat. "In the truck." Another beat. "With the windows up." Obviously. He, too, continues walking backward, looking over his shoulder to ensure that nobody is going to become the most recent snack of the bug things, and checking for anything here that might give them some kind of advantage against the roaches. "Too soon to try fire?" he asks. But then stops and thinks, "Wait, they can survive atom bombs right?" Surely the internet never lied to him about something as fundamental as the superpowers of the overgrown horror-movie cockroach. With the windows up indeed. Ethan pushes the button a few futile times to make sure they’re all the way up. “I don’t know. I do know a bug guy. Or know of a bug guy. He was at the Thing, so…maybe not going to shock him with a tale of giant bugs. He might need or want a sample though.” He pauses, furrowing his brow. “Even if they’re Claimed they must…have a species they’re based off, right? A behavior? A weakness? Maybe a way to locate the nest and…drop some sort of thing into it that takes them out or…or something.” He lets out a sharp hiss of air. “Man. I really hope this isn’t going to be some sort of baby tooth watch situation.” It's probably not a good time to point out all the ways in which the undercarriage of a motor vehicle is not airtight, and things can...squirm in from underneath. Bright side, the roaches do not appear to be swarming out of the alley; it's possible that whatever passes for their brains can recognize when they're in a garbage rich environment. Colt shakes his head. "For something like this? Nah. It'll be something more straightforward. Fifty gallon drum of Raid should do." Ethan hits the window button. Colt hits the door-locks. Fearless hunters. He gives it a think a moment. "Not claimed. Probably not a Host." He considers their options. "What happens if you -- drive into the alley and turn on your brights?" A glance over at Ethan, giving a shrug. "I mean, if they're based on roaches -- light might be a thing." And if not then they'll have ruled out one avenue. FOR SCIENCE! But Colt continues. "Could be some kind of weird-ass Influence? Strengthening the bugs? But that means that there's a spirit. Either on this side, or strong enough to reach through." Not great, in either event. "So it'd need some kind of resonance. Or a locus." A glance to Ethan. "You feel a locus?" Ethan hesitates. He frowns, and takes a breath, and focuses. He sort of tries to stretch out his senses. And frowns. "Not...right here. Not close." He reaches out to turn on the car. FOR SCIENCE! "Which means...what? Something sent them out here, or...something made giant flying acid roaches that might be breeding God knows how fast now?" He turns the key and maneuvers the truck towards the alley, muttering, "Sorry about this, Baby." But he's not so precious about his truck that he won't use it for the greater good. He's going to try to get it right up to the edge so he can flip on the brights and...see what happens. Baby will never forgive Ethan. But it doesn't seem HURT by it; he's able to stop short of the ruptured dumpster and still get a good angle on the last place the roaches were seen. The lights come on, bright and strong. And there are the roaches; in the strong light, they can both get a _real_ good look at them, and they look...well, very much like household brown roaches, just really, really big. Not black and glossy like a Palmetto Bug, but a sort of pale, milk-chocolate brown, with pale wings and long legs. The roaches all freeze when the light falls on them. Then, like any roaches, they immediately scatter - some take to the air, fluttering to walls so they can climb and scurry for holes and crevices. Others stick to the ground, running for low holes in foundations and down pipes that lead to the sewers. Either way, they're running away very fast. Colt has a moment -- and but a moment -- to consider the logistics of what they've just done. Giant truck, check. In the alley, check. Flesh-eating acid-bugs, check. Hi-beams likely to piss them off? Check. ...Enough clearance to open the doors in case something goes horribly, terribly predictably? He glances out the side of the truck, and then at the back window. Then the front window. Already wondering how hard it would be to kick out one or the other. Ethan probably can see that calculus in real time. And be horrified and outraged. But then the bugs are flying off. Out of sight. Scurrying into various little boltholes. And Colt has a second to think of something *else*. "Shit. What did we just do?" Now they're in several buildings. Probably. And airborne, assuredly. Well. This day keeps getting better. Ethan sees it a little differently though. He narrows his eyes. “Verified they act like real roaches though,” he says slowly. He tap tap taps his fingers on the steering wheel and backs up. “I have an idea,” he says. “We’re going to need a fuckton more taquitos and a can of RAID. If they act like real roaches, they’re not going to let that deter them long. We know they have a taste for this food now. We can find out if RAID kills them…and maybe get a sample.” A new shopping list is born! He starts backing the truck out of the alley again, planning to just drive right back to the 7-11 now. “At least this experiment probably won’t get us arrested again.” The streets are fairly clear, and the 7-11 is always open. And, bonus, not currently being robbed. The bleary eyed guy behind the counter is gonna side-eye the hell out of a purchase of all the store's current supply of hot taquitos (which only amounts to about six) and however many of the frozen ones they want. And the Raid. When the goods are put on the counter, counter-guy coughs, and gently puts a small box of Gas-X next to the purchases. Just a suggestion. No pressure. Colt looks at the box of Gas-X on the counter. He stares at it for a moment, considering his next move carefully. Looking over to the side, he grabs a box of Trojan Magnum XXL, and lays it on top of the Gax-S, looking at Counter Guy and blowing him a little air kiss, predator's eyes locked on the man in the most intensely uncomfortable way that he can manage, the corner of one mouth curling up into a sneering smirk. Ethan just digs out the money as Colt has his moment with the counter guy, pulling out cash, pretending that whole interaction is just not happening. He usually carries cash cause those transactions can't be traced. He really never wants to be across from a Detective saying 'so tell me about all the taquitos, Gas-X, condoms, and RAID.' "Thanks buddy," he says to the counter guy, absently. Once they are back in the truck he pulls out the little red plastic thingie and screws it into the can. He sort of sticks it into the middle of the Taquitos and sprays a little bit, just working to spike every one of them up in a way that will potentially conceal the smell of poison. He frowns a little as if wondering whether it will be enough. While steadfastly ignoring the Federal warning on the side of the can about misusing the bug spray. Counter Guy goes white as a sheet. Mind his own business? MESSAGE RECEIVED. He rings up the purchases and takes the cash without another word. Or looking at Colt or Ethan. Some faces he wants to be absolutely truthful about not remembering if someone asks. Colt runs his tongue across his top teeth, turning away from the kid at the counter and leaning over to Ethan. "That's never gonna get old." The condoms, naturally, get put in Ethan's jacket pocket, sure to remain there until some embarrasing moment when he goes to pull something out and out comes XXL's, complete with stares. This is what friends are for. Still, he watches as Ethan loads up the taquito with its liquid payload of poison. There's a bit of a grimace there. "You know that we're probably gonna end up poisoning half the cats in the neighborhood if they don't take the bait, right?" Moral quagmires. Ethan's head tilts to one side and straight again, his mouth thinning briefly. "If the roaches don't eat the cats first." He puts the can in the back after capping it, and exhales. Back to the alley! When they get close he turns off the truck a moment and tosses Colt the keys. "You stay in the truck, this is my dumb idea. You can scatter them with the lights again if they try to eat my face." Then he opens the door with his 7-11 bag full of poison pills. Colt will have a chance to object or stop him or change up the plan, though; he's not exactly moving fast. Not like he's entirely in a hurry to go back in to Jurassic Roach Alley. When Ethan steps into the alleyway, it looks as if all the roaches have gone. There's shreds of taquito wrapper over there, and a mostly-eaten rat corpse, nothing left but a tattered tail and most of the bones, over here. How does one get wary roaches to come out to play?? Well, maybe if one tears open a couple of taquitos so that the smell really comes out, and sniffs around until they find a good spot where it looks like roaches would like as a nice, secure staging area for a food incursion, and set the bait up right there...yes. That looks like it will do it. Or not. Minutes pass. Five. Ten. The roaches do not emerge. Perhaps they've scattered for good? What Ethan does notice, though, is a weird little thing on the pavement by his foot. It's about the size of a man's thumb, a smooth and organic sort of capsule. He's almost certainly seen a roach egg sac before, and this is that, just blown up to monstrous size. Colt leans against Baby's hood, waiting. Watching. On edge. On edge some more. Still on edge... And then bored. He looks around, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as he looks around the alleyway. "I think we used too much." A deadpan look at Ethan. 'We', not 'you'. Colt claims his part in it too. "Wanna try burgers?" A glance around the alley. Just in case there are any un-eaten rats that might be used as bait. Rats seem to be very much on the menu, at least. And can, in theory, hold more poison. That is *certainly* not a conversation he wants to have with a detective though. Especially not when someone asks how the Raid got *in* the rat. Yeah they might have reached their quota on putting dubious substances into dubious corpses. But Ethan bends down and stares at the egg sac. "Well...we might not have to," he says. He pats the interior of his jacket and brings out that package of condoms. He rips one up to grab one out, and lets the package flitter away. He takes out his multi-tool and pulls out the tweezers, then carefully tweezes that egg sack up and puts it in the condom. Then he ties a knot in it. "Glad you got the XXLs." Perfect for oversized egg-sacs. Beat. "Else I might have been offended." He straightens up again. And has a moment to contemplate his life. He's standing in an alley holding a giant roaches egg sac in a condom. His mutter echos Colt's original thought, all unknowing. "Shit like this is why I'm still single." Solomon Jessup isn't a hard man to find if one is inclined to; he's on the faculty webpage, complete with picture, staff email, and office phone. There's even his building number and office number; you gotta love the Information Age. When Ethan calls ahead on his office phone, instead of the expected stilted message, there's an answer and a brisk, "No extensions unless someone is literally dead. Is someone dead?" Ethan did the dial on speaker so that Colt could talk too. He glances over at Colt, then instead of answering the literally dead question: "Literal flying acid-spitting roaches the size of small cats. Interested?" Why bury the lede? Colt adds, "Aggressive little shits, too. You want us to wait until they try to eat someone? We can bring you the corpse for verification purposes, but that's a whole lot of paperwork on your end." There's a moment of silence. Then, "I see you found more interesting garbage, Mr. Weaver. And of course I'm interested. Did you--" Solomon cuts off when Colt speaks up. "And you are...?" Then, after a moment, "Never mind. If you have a specimen, I have a lab. Alive?" He sounds hopeful. Ethan's lips twitch at Colt's offer. "Egg sack. We tried not to kill it." Ethan grimaces ruefully at Solomon's interesting garbage comment. It speaks to certain patterns in his life that are emerging. He goes ahead and snags the parking stubby ticket thing though so they can park and get up there to see the guy and his lab. Colt seems to have no more to add to this particular part of the conversation. He lets Ethan take the ticket, driving through the parking lot and searching for a space in the classic circular ascending labyrinth game everyone knows how to play. "Did we save any of the taquitos?" Colt looks over, then in the back of the truck, frowning. Of course they didn't. "Today sucks balls." Solomon makes a noise. Then he says, "Come in the west entrance," and hangs up. He meets them at the door to the Biology building; everything is dark and locked up tight, except for certain insomniac Changelings. He gives the two men a quick once over, then leads them up to the labs. They're dark except for the lights in the one section he turns on; a little corner of the larger space that appears to be devoted to bugs. There are pinned beetles displayed on the walls, there's a small glass case that has meat infested with tiny wriggling maggots, all sorts of fun stuff. The professor is dressed for work, although by this point, the tie has been loosened and his long sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up. Once they're all in the lab, he says, "I recognize you from the other night," to Colt. "Solomon." He extends a hand. "What's this about acid spitting roaches?" The other two men will have a moment to make introductions, because Ethan has leaned down to stare at the maggot-meat, getting utterly distracted with an expression on his face that crosses grossed out with fascinated, as he murmurs an agreeing: "Today sucks balls." Colt offers a hand, and a name in return. "Colt." He, too, is a little bit fascinated by the lab, but not quite sure what to make of it. *Especially* the maggot meat that Ethan seems to be so very occupied with right at the moment. Still, he answers the question. "Roaches," Colt answers. "Spit might be a stretch. Definitely -- oozed. From the mouth area." He holds his flat hands apart at the approximate average size of a roach, in his memory, but given that men have been measuring inaccurately by this sign for centuries, probably safe to subtract ten percent or so. Solomon's handshake is brief and lacks any attempt at strength posturing. To Ethan, he says, "They've only just hatched. They'll be in that state for another eight to twelve hours before they begin their metamorphosis to bottleflies. It's an interesting process. I've got some videos, if you're interested." But giant roaches are _probably_ more interested. He hms at the size indicated. "There's no breed of roach that I know that comes even close to that size. Nor are roaches typically venomous. Are you certain it wasn't some other bug? You said something about an egg sac?" “It’s right…” Ethan reaches into his pocket and sighs. Right. He holds out the tied off condom with a look of stoic embarrassment on his face. “It’s in here,” he tells the wall just past Solomon’s head. “And I don’t know. You’re the bug expert. It looked like roaches. And they were aggressive. They bit me, a little.” A frown. “Kinda smart, for roaches, maybe, but I’m not sure if it was smarts or just…” He shakes his head, standing there for all the world like he just hopes Solomon will take the bug babies quick. Colt, for his part, manages to look perfectly stoic as Ethan pulls the tied-off condom out of his pocket. This is all perfectly scientific, you see. It's happening in a lab, and they did the best they could manage under teh circumstances. It's latex, after all. The same thing as gloves! And the lube... just helps it come out easier. A glance to Ethan, then, and a note typed into his phone, muttering almost under his breath, "Ziploc bags for glove box..." Solomon looks at the condom. He looks at Ethan. He looks back at the condom. Then he takes the bug babies and says, "At least you remembered to use protection." It's perfectly deadpan. What isn't is the follow up remark as he squints at the shape in the condom. "Promise me this isn't really about some wereroach trying to baby trap you?" A flash of a grin as he heads over to turn on a lighted dissection table. He gently shakes out the egg case, and hums at it with a flash of interest. He turns it over in long fingers. "Fascinating. It does appear to be the ootheca of a common Blattella germanica...only exponentially enlarged. Did you remove this by force, or did it naturally release? If the latter, the nymphs might still be alive inside. I'm gonna cut it open. While I work, perhaps you'll give me the summary of events?" He sounds terribly excited about this. Ethan manages to avoid flustering *too* badly at the wereroach question, or the deadpan quip. His own voice turns dry. "I don't know, man, we're not bug CPS. We don't know when she dropped it. Could have been any time between a rat's Cuban necktie, my brief dance with them, a fuckton of taquitos or putting on our brights." He's not quite in the zone to turn it all into a story just yet, but then again that pretty much just hit the high points. (Or the low points. As the case may be). Colt isn't exactly in the mood to relate more of the high points, either. That pretty much covers it all, anyway. Instead, he starts to look a little nervous when Solomon takes the little sac over to the table. "Alive?" He gives Ethan a worried glance, holding up a finger -- not that Solomon will see it of course -- "Uh. Doc. You might wanna think about this for a second. They don't have an issue eating *people* as grown-up bugs. The babies might be even less picky, man." Yep. Definitely nervous about the thought of more little baby roaches. Solomon pauses to pull on some gloves, and retrieve a scalpel from a nearby drawer. He also gestures to a nearby clear plastic container. "Weaver, pick that up if you will. If the nymphs are alive, then once I cut open the sac, they'll attempt to escape. I'll pull back my hands and you can cover it. Unless they can eat through plastic, it'll be fine." Did he hear the part about the acid? Maybe he's hoping that doesn't come in until later in the growth cycle. Either way, he grins at Colt and Ethan. "It'll be fine. In a typical egg canister, there's usually only about forty nymphs. Admittedly, this much larger than that, but so are the bugs, from what you said. Also...taquitos? Were you _feeding_ them?" He doesn't wait for the answer before he starts to cut into it. FOR SCIENCE. Ethan's eyes widen as Colt offers a possibility he sure as hell hadn't thought about. He opens his mouth to say—something, but then he's being directed to pick up a container, and he does, staring at it and unscrewing the canister so he can do the thing. "The first taquito was offered per the terms of my release." Poising like a basketball player about to make the 3-point shot, waiting for Solomon to cut this thing open. Luna-marked to specific purpose, his entire life has now been washed in the bold oranges and aquas of epic genre, and his trope-tinged commentary reflects the spiritual trend. "Sure. Because. When has 'it'll be fine' ever led to anything bad ever?" Good news and bad news. Good news: Ethan did a good job keeping the egg case from getting crushed or squashed or overheated or any of the other things that could have killed the buggies inside. And Solomon knows how to cut open the case without slicing through those delicate little roach bodies. Bad News? That means at least fifty fingernail size nymphs pour out of the egg sac. Solomon pulls his hands back, eyes widening. "Lively little things. Trap them!" Also bad news: they scatter REAL good, and there's just no way. Ethan can get about half the swarm, and the rest of it is spreading across the table like...well, like a swarm of baby giant roaches. Solomon backs up and says, "Keep them occupied for a moment, would you both? Don't let them get to the walls or floor." Colt grimaces, already forseeing what's going to happen. And it happens *exactly* like it would in his very worst nightmare scenario. Take that, vampiric discipline! Reality is so much weirder! Colt rushes to the table as the little things pour out, as if there's actually something he can do in this scenario. And then skids to a halt when he realizes what he's doing, and that there's *not actually anything he can do in this scenario*. "Uh." A glance to Solomon, not sure what the hell he's supposed to be doing in the slightest. "I hope you have a good idea on how to negotiate with their queen because I'm about to engage in a fucking genocide my dude. How the fuck do you contain these things?" He looks around for something, anything, that might be able to help. Hey, someone left a couple of trays in a nearby drying rack that might be useful for scooping up small skittering things. Or...squishing them. Whichever. And then there’s Ethan, this very tall man zigging and zagging across the lab trying to catch roach babies in a jar with scientific delusions of grandeur. Smash cut to… Downstairs: security guard, watching television. Cartoons. The Yakity Sax theme plays. Back in the lab, Ethan cursing up a blue streak, and chasing roaches, trying to frantically get some in while others try to run back out. He hasn’t knocked anything over. Yet. In their defense - Ethan and Colt are probably used to much larger prey. These things may be giant roaches, but in this state, they're tiny and clingy and even if they can't fly yet, they get everywhere. Ethan and Colt end up with roaches running up their arms, down their legs, and inside their clothing. And the entomologist? Well. He doesn't seem to do anything while all this is going on, except humming a simple little tune to himself. It's brief, and he repeats it three times. At the last note, all the roaches just...stop. "All right, that's enough," he tells...someone? "On the table. All of you." And it looks like the little roaches are obeying him, provided they don't get squished as they detach from the battle and return to the dissection tray to line up in little rows. Colt grabs one of the drying trays from off the rack, attempting to herd the little buggy bastards onto the table. This has, of course, somewhat poor results, as the things simply crawl over the tray, up his arms, into his shirt... WHich has the rather predictable effect of Colt dropping the tray, and attempting to shake the little things off of his skin, t-shirt going up over his head and getting *thrown* in a random direction. Randomly, by pure chance, directly at Ethan, of course, who's having problems of his own... It's only when Solomon finishes his little song and the creatures just -- seem to listen to him, that the werewolf turns, jaw dropping a bit even as he still scratches his bare chest reflexively. "What. The fuck." T-shirt to the face! Bugs in the clothes! Flailing dance of unhappiness! Ethan has popped to Dalu somewhere during all this too, snarling in incoherent fury, though it’s a remarkably controlled one for a werewolf. And then the babies evacuate the premises in orderly baby soldier march. He flings down Colt’s t-shirt in an angry wad just to have something to fling down…and if he kills some of the little bastards doing it he doesn’t seem to care, directs a furious gleaming gaze at Solomon, and half asks, half-accuses: “You could have done that any time!” This form wasn’t exactly meant for *indignation,* but somehow that’s still the vibe. "Not any time; I needed to know what species they were, and it doesn't always work," Solomon murmurs before he glances up at the other two, grimacing an apology at Colt. Then he catches sight of Ethan's shift and he just...stares. He's good at staring, and this time his eyes are wide and his stance slides into something more defensive. "Oh. Hey. Let's not...do any more of that. There's delicate instruments in here. And my bones. I like my bones." An urgent look to Colt. Colt's chest rises and falls a bit faster than a man that completely has his shit together. It's currently very evident, as it's on display, his shirt at Ethan's feet. But he follows Solomon's glance over to Ethan, seeing the man's transformation. Clearing his throat a bit, he gives Ethan a little nod. Probably a signal that it's ok. Or that Colt's shirt is at Ethan's feet and he might want that back. Assuming it's not covered in bug bits. Or maybe that he should downshift. Really, nods can be very expressive. Turning his attention back to Solomon, he asks, "So are you a -- witch?" He cocks his head to the side, trying to parse out what strange manner of man knows how to play pled piper to *periplaneta*. It’s not Wasu-Im, at least; the few times Colt has ever seen *that* happen to Ethan the man tends to end up in wolf form, not Dalu, and he always seems to get himself under control pretty fast. But it doesn’t take Kuruth for someone to be destructive in their anger, and for one, tense moment there is a 7-foot tall livid wolfman panting there in a lab, eyes fixed on Solomon as he gives his explanation. But then Colt catches his attention with that nod, he follows the man’s gaze down to the shirt. A lot *is* communicated, but it was a necessary anchor. As he reaches to pick it up the sound of snapping and crunching and the disturbing flow of stretching skin results in a Ethan returning to the human form. He uncrumples the crumpled garment and checks it over for bug stains. He seems to have basically missed, at least, and he holds it back out to his friend with a rather shame-faced expression. "I'm a changeling," Solomon says, keeping his voice low and steady and his eyes firmly fixed on Ethan. "Got enslaved by an amoral fae-god-thing, got changed around into whatever it desired, and then I escaped. You know. The usual. Perk of all the horrifying torture and transformation, though, sometimes I can command animals." He flicks his fingers at the nymphs, who are still sitting in rows on the table, their tiny little antennae twitching. When Ethan shifts back into human, Solomon still doesn't look away, his expression fascinated and wary all at once. He does relax, a little. "I'm sorry; I didn't intend for anyone to be distressed. Are either of you hurt?" Colt's eyes widen as Solomon explains what he is. The werewolf is *actually bouncing on his toes a bit* by the time that Solomon is done, not even bothering to put the shirt *on*. Instead, he just tucks it into the back pocket of his pants. This is fine. Nothing un-lab-like about a shirtless man running around, looking excited. Colt gives a little shake of his head at the apology. "Nope. Good. All good," he tells Solomon, moving right on past that. "I heard about you guys. Like. Literally the other day." This is the first *confirmed* meeting with one, though. Which is apparently what has him excited. A beat, though, and some of the excitement starts to wear off a bit, replaced by -- something else. "I kind of thought you'd be -- you know. Different." A shorter pause. "Maybe like -- shorter. Or. Elf-y-er." Colt. Master of Supernatural social Graces. You're the margarine of elf-y. You're the diet coke of elf-y. Only one calorie, not elf-y enough." “It’s I who should apologize. We came to you for help in the night. I shouldn’t have shouted. Or the other thing. I’m fine.” But it’s…real hard for Ethan to stay in a place of shame while he’s watching Colt bounce with excited-glee over there. His lips twitch, his eyes shine with humor now. Sure, it’s not like he is sophisticated or knows a damn thing about changelings, and Solomon’s story, even sketched out in a few matter-of-fact lines, is no laughing matter. But it’s infectious, that unguarded moment of excited enthusiasm, and fun to be part of. He just lets himself get swept up in it for a moment, enjoying it while he does nothing at all to hinder Colt’s questions. Okay, that works to take Solomon's stare from Ethan, to Colt. He looks...bewildered, honestly, by the other man's enthusiasm. Absently, he says, "I don't actually look like what you see. It's an illusion, of sorts. But I'm not...an elf. Keebler OR Sidhe. Some of us look like that. But not all." He crosses his arms over his chest and gives them both a sheepish sort of look. "Sorry to disappoint. You should meet one of the Fairest. They're more like you're hoping for. Regal, shining, all of that." This time it's Colt's turn to look surprised again. He looks over to Ethan, the confusion and excitement warring on his face. "I -- what?" He looks over at the table. Where a little army of nymphs are currently gathered, awaiting further instructions. "Dude. DUDE." He gestures to teh table again. Emphatically. For *emphasis*. "You just did -- that. Fuckin' Legolas didn't do that shit. He just stood there looking stuck up and snarky." A beat, and then he glances to Ethan. "...I mean. He ... didn't. Did he?" A glance over to the little bug army, and then back to Ethan, a helpless, searching glance here as he waits for the man to bail him out of his ner-deficiency. “All Legolas did was throw a dwarf and look hot,” Ethan agrees, nodding with perhaps more solemnity than this deserves. But Colt is looking for a social bailout here, not LoTR trivia, so he adds: “You’ve impressed him, Dr. Jessup. Doesn’t happen too often. Not too often that we make friends, period, really, outside our circles. Hopefully our rough ways aren’t too much of a deterrent to that.” "He was very good with a bow. And ran along the top of a snowdrift. That's pretty cool," Solomon says, loyal to the...highly inaccurate fictional analogue. He takes a breath, goes a little less defensive as he looks at the nymph army. "If you can forgive me for having giant roach babies crawl all over you - on _accident_, I must emphasize, then I can certainly forgive you for 'rough ways'." He smiles one of his thin, almost lipless smiles. "I'm not offended or anything. Just consider yourself lucky that I expended some of my Stupid Werewolf Questions earlier today." He moves back towards the table and tells the nymphs, "Roll over." And they do, in perfect unison. He inspects their underbellies, and says, brisk and professional and in no way trying to distract from sudden shyness when faced with enthusiasm, "These do appear to be german cockroaches. Just really big. And...here. See these?" He points at tiny bits that look...buggy. Like all the other buggy bits. "Enlarged mandibles for biting, and what appear to be venom glands. Those aren't standard, and they shouldn't even work there. These bugs aren't magical, but I don't think this looks like a natural mutation _or_ genetic manipulation." Colt -- has no idea what he's looking at. Buggy bits on buggy bits that barely look like anything at all, really. This is just where he's at now, apparently. "Uh. Yeah. That's -- good?" He really has no idea. Is this good? A glance to Ethan, here. Again. Looking for guidance from the younger wolf. This is, after all, his show. But the mention that the bugs are changed, but not magically, and not through mad science, gets a bit of a frown from him. "Could be a spirit," he says. "Something -- buggy, and venemous, giving them things they couldn't have before. Or a witch. Or..." Really, there are a multitude of possibilities. Ethan looks rather surprised that Colt is looking for guidance from *him.* That’s a little bit new. If he saw it as his show he shows no signs of that now. He pulls up a chair, one of those rolly ones that seem ubiquitous in all labs, straddles it, and rolls it slowly back and forth while he drapes his arms over the back, thinking. “Alright, well, if we don’t know why and the list of speculations is too long, we need a different angle. We can’t let these things run around regardless. They’ll make the neighborhood and maybe the whole city a fuckton less livable all on their own merits, and I really don’t want to think what kinds of spirits they’ll attract or the kinds of Claimed those spirits would make. So. A problem. And the question to answer is probably…what do we need to do in order to find out more?” "I haven't had much experience with spirits," Solomon admits. "But I can do some more experiments on the nymphs. I can't accelerate their life cycle, but maybe I can find out some more about them. Either way...if there's a nest, it needs to be found. If these things breed true, and spread? A German cockroach female can create about two hundred and fifty nymphs in her lifetime. And they're resistant to insecticides, you know. Over the counter pesticides mostly just give them a tickle. And that's at regular size." He fetches a bug jar from a nearby shelf, and sets it on the table. "All right, you lot. In you go." And the nymphs swarm the jar, crawling up and over and in until they rest in a seething, buggy pile. He caps the jar, sets it aside, and leans against the counter with a sigh. "The roaches are going to be radiating out from their harborage to get food, then retreating back to where they feel safe to breed. The nest will have a lot of nymphs in various stages of development. But if we locate adults, map out the sightings, we can probably generate a search area. It'll be somewhere dark, with lots of clutter or trash, ideally undisturbed. An abandoned building, or landfill, maybe. If you capture me a live adult, I _might_ be able to make it lead us back to the nest. But...it means catching a live adult." His eyebrows go up like 'does that sound like fun'. Colt gives a little grimace as Solomon lays out the plan. "So," he groans. "You want us to go get one and have you lead it to wherever they're eating Timmy in the well." He pinches the bridge of his nose. He already knows that they can't let this go. He has oaths to keep, after all, and letting their territory get overrun with these things is just not an option. "Any of you ever see *Aliens*? *Arachnophobia?*" A glance between them. "Going into a nest full of mutated things we don't understand? Probably not gonna end well for -- anyone." He gives Solomon that forced 'why yes that does sound like pure joy' smile. It doesn’t sound like fun, but it does sound actionable. Even if Ethan is having a rueful moment about his bug spray plan. Oh well. “What kind of bug juice we gotta get to kill them all? And how much? And could we just…get it to the nest without wandering in ourselves, in some sort of clever way? Cause yeah, man. I seen 'em. For the other…I gotta tell you…that basically describes the goddamn *neighborhood*.” But he’s pulling out his phone, dropping a Google Map pin onto a Google Map that pinpoints the exact alleyway, saving it, and sending a copy to Colt and Solomon’s email addresses as they speak, thumbs flying over the screen. There's a flash of a grin at Colt from Solomon. "I love those movies," he confesses. "Even if Arachnophobia is really quite slanderous towards arachnids. Very few arachnids are remotely human aggressive, and they just don't behave like that. Not to mention the unlikelihood of a spontaneous cross-breed being so prolific..." he trails off, coughs before he goes off on a rant. Back on track, he tells Ethan, "Professional-grade insecticide. Boric acid dust will work, and we've got a fair amount on hand because it's cheap and mostly mammal-safe, but it's slow. But...professional grade bait paste would be better. Or just," Solomon gestures at the jar, "squish them. Cockroaches are tenacious, gifted survivors. They're chemically resistant - hell, chemically _repellant_ - and it can take weeks or months of concerted effort to clear an infestation. But it's possible that if we eliminate the cause, whether it's a spirit or something else, that these alterations won't carry through to the next generation." "Squish them." Colt blinks a few times. Trying to parse the words. "All of them. The -- man-eating acid-roaches in their untold hundreds. *Squish* them." He looks at Ethan, and then back at Solomon, wondering if he actually heard this correctly. Upon realizing that he did, he just gives a little groan, shaking his head. "Fine. FINE. I'll be in the truck." | |