Your Word
| Your Word | |
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"You can't... negotiate?" | |
| Players | Hyde Park Solomon and Darwin catch up and go over /many/ topics without strangling each other. It's downright cordial. |
It's a bright, hot day of late summer in Chicago. A lovely day for a lunch, surely. Solomon texted Darwin suggesting they finally get around to having that lunch and chat. He even suggested a place, not far from the U of C campus, that was not a coffee shop. It's actually a nice bistro run by a clued-in mortal who's signed onto the Accords. Which might explain the way Sol's able to reserve a private room ordinarily used for group meetings for just the two of them. He's early - he's always early - and dressed for work in a tweed suit, pressed slacks, and polished leather shoes. When either of them arrives, someone quickly breaks off to convey them to their private room, leaving menus and a pitcher of water along with any other drinks they order. Darwin is well-rested for once, maybe due to the soothing rain sounds app Miel had so graciously played for him. He shows up in a different, non-beige color for once, a green turtleneck beneath his... beige coat. He will always fit beige in. There's some brief confusion as he's led to the private room, but he doesn't question it, and sits down with Solomon, ignoring the menu and pitcher for the moment to aggressively rub his face. "I'm not addressing you as god," he prefaces, peeking through his fingers. Solomon grins. "Luckily, I don't require it. It's just a nice bonus, if you're feeling the urge." His eyes twinkle with sharp-edged amusement. He's got a soda in addition to the water, and takes a sip. "You're looking un-mauled and well-rested, so I assume you've recovered from your meeting with Gangbro Alpha?" Darwin leans his jaw in his palm, taking in the decor of their private room. "Every moment I spend in civilization heals me," he mutters. "That was a fucking mess." He pauses. "You have connections here?" He gestures vaguely around them. "From the University?" Solomon snickers. "Next time, bring milk-bones. It might not improve the quality of the conversation, but it will be //deeply// entertaining." To _whom_, he doesn't say, but the way his eyes light up at the thought suggests one possible candidate. He nods at the first, then shakes his head at the second. "I decided to claim this area through the Accords. The university is here, and I don't particularly care for the idea of having a 'landlord', so to speak, where I work. I've spent the last few months being as nice to the right people as I could possibly manage - and using other methods when niceness failed." His voice is dry. "So, Hyde Park is mine, according to a very small number of people who most mortals will never even know exist." Darwin looks like he's about to entertain the idea of milk-bones when Solomon explains his reach. His attention sharpens, he leans in, and then Solomon confirms: Hyde Park. Darwin's fingers dig into the table. "I'm living in your territory!?" He's already sort of hunched over, so Darwin dropping his brow against the table to rattle the silverware isn't particularly dramatic. He lingers there a moment, then lifts his narrowed, critical gaze. "Explain the wards you have. Do you do patrols? Who gives you reports? Do you trust them? Do you have anything that triggers alarms?" he grills. Solomon blinks. Clearly he didn't know. And then? He laughs. "Are you? How..._delightful_." It's practically purred. Of course, then he's buried in a deluge of questions. He has to take a moment to drink some of the sweet soda, before even trying to answer one of them. "And I get information here and there, but it's no doubt not as formal as what one of your packs might claim. For obvious reasons, I'd rather not divulge the specifics of my monitoring and influence." He arches an eyebrow. "Why?" "Don't-- don't--" Darwin prickles at Solomon's delight, then straightens, palms flat on the table. He grows even more annoyed when Solomon refuses to offer specifics, but though mostly at himself. "There's... territory things woven into some oaths. Territory is sacred. I hunt here. It just makes things complicated." He orders a plate of bacon when the waiter comes around, and waits until the door shuts before lifting his voice again. "I know nothing is ever one hundred percent safe, so give me a percentage. Not for me, but for Miel." "Your territory is different from the Accord meaning of the word," Solomon points out - and it's even as gentle as he ever gets. "I don't guarantee safety here. I don't have that power, and I won't swear to anything that I can't deliver. I've set some rules - for people who have signed the Accords to follow. If they break them, I can demand redress in coin or favor. But there's a lot of shit out there that doesn't care one whit about the Accords, Pace. And even for those who do--it's restitution after the fact, not prevention. And my rules are minimal, restricted to what I think I can actually pick up on - no death of humans or Lost without permission in advance, and no enslavement of humans or Lost, ever. Magically or otherwise." Darwin falls quiet, gaze falling to the ornate rim of a saucer. He says nothing for a long moment, then finally leans back in his seat, arms folding loosely. Whatever he thinks of the matter is hard to place in his features, but he seems to accept it one way or another. "I met with a vampire," he says at length. "She wanted help. I guess at some point the unAccorded wolves as they're called betrayed one of their princes, so they're planning an attack to eradicate them. They're... taking over the Undercity--?" Solomon nods. "It may have been one of the vampires that went on our scouting trip down there." He sighs. "There's this...rift. Under the city. Called the Wound. I don't know where, exactly, it goes, but the giant fiery cow came out of there, and is trying to set the city on fire in a pattern that follows the Great Chicago Fire. Those wolves were apparently hired to guard the Wound and keep shit from getting out. Instead, they seem to have formed a cult around the damn thing and are setting themselves on fire for it. Which, normally, I would say is a 'self-solving problem', but apparently you guys can survive that just fine." He shrugs. Darwin looks struck at first, then almost amused. "A wound is when something happens in the physical world, something so devastating, so terrible that it's almost like a knife that cuts through the gauntlet. Wounds are usually from large disasters and prolonged suffering... and. Well. I guess it makes a lot of sense now. The fire. And it was started by a cow kicking a lantern over. So there's your fire cow." He eventually gets his plate of bacon and looks /very/ pleased about the quality. "The vampires were considering silver for handling the situation. I don't know what they intend to do about the cow. Were there... plans on your end?" "There's no evidence that the Chicago Fire was started by a cow," Solomon grumbles, albeit with the world-weary resignation of someone who knows that the facts don't matter. "But yes, the urban legend no doubt influenced the thing's shape and form." He hums at the question. His own lunch is a club sandwich and what appear to be fresh made potato chips. He nibbles at one between bites. "Another Lost and I discovered a woman - she has visions - putting a certain symbol at the scene of the fires. It may be something that prevents a place from being targeted a second time. I was going to bring it up at the Allthing, see if we can't get some people to disperse and tag the city. Or the Undercity - if it prevents the spirit from going to a place tagged, then perhaps we could trap it in a particular stretch of tunnel and deal with it from there?" "Do you remember what the symbol looks like? Might be a First Tongue glyph," Darwin wonders, taking a bite of bacon. "That's not a bad idea, the tagging thing. The cow must be a totem of that Pure pack. The wolf I talked to indicated that the unAccorded wolves are probably from the Fire-Touched tribe. Fervid preachers of insanity and disease that cannot bear to lie nor hear a lie being told, else they'll go right into death rage. The tribe's totem is Gurim-Ur," Darwin curls his lips. "The omega. The coward. It'll be quite a fight for the vampires." His shoulders slump. "I suppose it's /their/ problem. I didn't even know about an Undercity." "Sure." Solomon reaches for a few packets of sugar on the table, and just dumps them out on the tabletop like a monster. It lets him sketch a quick symbol in the wood. "It's the O'Leary cattle brand, actually. No known occult meaning - but I gather spirits are weird about shit like that." He makes a thoughtful sound. "Can't bear to hear a lie being told, huh? Can we use that? What's a death rage? It doesn't sound pleasant. Although it does sound entertaining." And then he picks up his sugar tipped finger and flicks the little grains right at Darwin. "You gonna let people tell you what your problem is or isn't? I wouldn't." Darwin instinctively tries to push an empty coffee cup over to catch that sugar, a little too late. Oh, for writing. "Could just ask for a /pen/," he says under his breath, studying the brand. "One of the vamps suggested that, using that lie thing in their favor. I don't know /how/. Death rage is... being forced into war form and attacking whatever's around you, friend or foe, uncontrollably. It can happen if you spend too long in war form or get wounded from silver. And then it can get specific. Like for me, if I'm having a really bad day--" He pauses, eying Solomon, "And I'm sharing this because it pertains to your... nature-- The feeling of insect legs against me will set me off." He scoffs. "Yeah, with your evasive maneuvers? I bet it'd be entertaining. Pfft." Solomon snorts. "What's the fun in that?" It's teasing but absently so - it's clear he's thinking about what Darwin is saying, and is considering it closely. "So...if at one of those little cult meetings, someone could whisper some lies into certain ears without being a viable target, then..." his eyebrows go up. Darwin sets his chin in his hand, thoughtful. "I think it could work. It'd be risky. Hard to say what would happen. But what's great about it is that if any packmates are close enough to a death raging wolf, they end up succumbing and death raging along with them. So it could spread... like a fire." He grins. "/Ideally/. I don't know if they'd just end up becoming some massive, roving mob of teeth and claws. High risk, high reward if they manage to slaughter each other." Solomon gives an absolutely evil sort of chuckle. "Now wouldn't that be something to see? Hmm. Perhaps we can bring it up at the Allthing. I believe we have Lost who might be able to do that, but others might have abilities, too. Some sort of way to force them to hear lies that doesn't endanger the liar. It could at least be a way to create chaos in their ranks." He wets a napkin with water and starts cleaning up the sugar he'd spilled. Darwin smirks at Solomon. It's an evilness he can get behind. "Whoever delivers the lie can't be a wolf, they'd sniff that our real quick. And maybe many lies. It needs to be persistent, because there's stages... and they have a chance to shake out of it. If it's within the Wound, all the better. Hard to resist, and more damaging. Something to think about, if folk at the Allthing like the idea. But who knows with wolves," he grumbles. "I sure as hell don't. I understand that the Accord isn't really about actively working together, but..." He trails off, moodily flicking the side of his glass. "Do I really look like a string bean?" "Does it have to be a believable lie? Can you just shout things like _the sky is a lovely shade of chartreuse this morning_? Or does it have to be something about a fact that matters?" Solomon is clearly taking mental notes. Hopefully about a power he plans only to use for the side of good. He breaks off at the question, and grins. There's a long, slow up and down. "Hm. I'm not one to talk," he points out with his spindly limbs. "And it's hard to tell with all the layers. You look _cold_. But also rather skinny. Does it matter, though? I've seen in you in murder-me form, and it's _not_ unimpressive." "I'm not sure," Darwin admits. "The Pure aren't my prey. Spiders are. But I had heard that simple, everyday questions like "how are you" need to be answered with personal truth and conviction. Like if they say good morning, it had better be a good morning for them." He pulls his layers tighter around him. "It's always cold!" he complains, but then lifts his head a little, some of his pride restored by a simple compliment. "...Do changelings have packs or anything like that?" Darwin asks. Solomon sniffs. "There's nothing wrong with a good spider, you know. They're tremendously useful when it comes to pest control." The defense of arachnidkind is reflexive and immediate. But he adds, "It's almost ninety degrees out there, Pace. Do your kind have doctors? Because you may wish to consult one." At the last, he hesitates, then nods. "We can. It's not as...prominent a thing as it seems to be for your folk. But if we truly trust people, we can make vows to one another and become a group. It's dangerous, if you have misjudged who you've sworn yourself to. A vow can be a noose." Darwin smiles slightly. "Sorry, I should say the host of the Spinner Hag is my prey. They just /look/ like spiders. And I'm not sick! We don't get sick!" he says, flustering and finally shedding one, ONE coat to hang on the back of his chair. "I'm gonna' start calling you Jessup. Are you saying you're basically bound to each other? Are you compelled to do what they say or something? Jessup?" "I don't mind my last name," Solomon says, serenely. "And if you're cold in summer, that might be a sign that you _do_ get sick." His eyes gleam with amusement. "Or you're just...cold-blooded?" He only considers that for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. You're one of the least cold-blooded people I've met, I think. And...no. Never compelled." Solomon frowns. "We don't _compel_. But the penalties for breaking an oath are harsh and uncaring about circumstances. So a smart person is always quite careful about what they swear. And if you swear to defend someone, and that person then goes out and abuses others..." Darwin looks like he's beginning to suspect that there might /actually/ be something wrong with him. He reaches for his glass of water and tucks into it, wary. The example makes him grimace. "Oh fuck that. The hell..." He squints. "Who the hell exacts the penalties. You can't... negotiate?" Solomon shakes his head. "What. Not who. And there is no negotiation. Your word is your word. Nothing less. Nothing more." He grins. "Read up on fairy tales if you want to learn all of the five million ways that can fuck you over. Or...did you ever heard the song 'Honest Rowan'? A clever mind can worm their way out of a lot of obligations. But when we swear to our friends, or those we wish to bind ourselves to? We tend to swear sincerely." Darwin shudders deeply. "A lot of fairy tales are /messed up/," he concedes. It's clear he's mulling over a few in his mind. How many were true? The thought is unnerving. "Okay Jessup, are you sworn to anyone? How many questions can I ask until you kick me out of your territory I wonder?" Solomon snorts. "I won't kick you out unless you violate my rules. Or hurt your boarder. That's not a rule. It will just piss me off." He eats a bit of his sandwich before chuckling. "I seem like a guy people are lining up to make lifelong vows with, do I?" A shake of his head. "That's not fair. I'm very reluctant to enter into such an arrangement with anyone. It..." he falls silent. "It would be nice. To trust people to that extent. But it's difficult." "Miel is the sweetest, most kindest person on the planet, I could never hurt him," Darwin insists. He looks Solomon over, then shrugs lightly. After the pause, he blinks. "Javi!" Like there's a question here that needs an answer. "You /love/ Javi!" He says this with his own impish delight, eyes dancing. "My experience of the world suggests that the sweet and kind people of the world are the most easy to hurt," Solomon says, voice dry. And then Javi's name gets yelled, and Solomon turns as if he expected the guy to appear behind him. Then Darwin goes on, and he turns back with a frown. "I beg your pardon?" It's frosty. If that isn't a worrisome thought. Darwin keeps smiling, lifting a brow. "You love Javi. Don't you? I mean, platonically." Though there's some faint doubt in his expression. "I guess there's nothing to gain unless it involves magic I don't know about." "Love?" Solomon doesn't answer. Not immediately. Instead he finishes off his sandwich as he thinks about it. "I don't know. I like him. I consider him a friend. He reminds me--" there's a pause. "Our circumstances have some similarity. But love?" A shake of his head. "I'd hesitate to use that word. I've known him for a couple of months at most." This is all done very solemn and thoughtful, as if he really needed to engage with that as an important decision to made. It's only after that his smile flashes out. "Why, were you asking if he's available? Because I don't think I'm the right person to ask the blessing of..." "Alright, fair," Darwin slumps back, the fun of provoking something having dissipated. After all, a few months isn't all that long. He doesn't look entirely convinced, but seemingly knows enough to back off. "Oh come on." He snorts, and finally pushes up from the table, pulling his coat back on. "I'm /not/, and even if I were interested, I wouldn't be asking for anyone's goddamn /blessing/." He pulls his shirt straight at the hem, smoothing it down. "God, he's really gonna' be there. And they're gonna' be talking about all this shit," he realizes. Solomon snickers. "But it would be _adorable_. I'd insist you bring a hat, so that you could take it off and hold it nervously in your hands as you told me how Javi had stolen your heart completely." He places a hand against his chest, and heaves a sigh worthy of Darwin's teenaged actors. "I would point out how love between a werewolf and a ghost-talker can never work. You're asking for too much. And you'd stand up and shout about how you can't ask for less than everything because of the depths of your feelings. And my stern heart would be warmed by your passion, and I would have to give you my blessing." He breaks off, then, and actually looks a little sheepish at how carried away he just got; he was clearly _enjoying_ himself. Now he clears his throat and says, quickly, "He is. And they are. Would keeping him ignorant keep him safe? At least as a member of the Accords he's got some protection." Darwin stares at Solomon, the humor gone from his eyes, cheeks burning. He tries to come up with something witty, something sharp. But all he ends up with is, "Shut up, Jessup." "No, I think it's good that he's in the know. The wolf I spoke to didn't seem too concerned about drawing attention in a bar full of humans. Maybe I'm overthinking this." He leans his hands on the back of the chair, clearly more comfortable on his feet. "...I was supposed to ask you about those giant bugs you mentioned." Solomon makes a sound. It's somewhere between amused and apologetic, not quiet willing to commit to either. But at least he stops making up fanfic about Darwin's love life. Take that as a win. He shrugs about the rest. "You're responsible for what - and who - you read in. If he's an idiot, he thinks he can just terrify or remove anyone who draws the right conclusions for things. It'll probably bite him on the ass." There's a sigh. "But the bugs. Yes. It's...complicated. There's this serial killer. He only leaves the heads and hands of his victims. I found an extremely rare insect - one not native to this region - on one of the corpses. I tried to track it through the black market, since it would have had to have been purchased. This led me to a friend and I, another wolf as it happens, finding an illegal fight ring for genetically engineered giant insects. It's likely that the murderer is attached to it. We also found a scientist who was being tortured by his ex-wife." It's small, but Darwin looks pleased, for a few seconds, about the recent source of his deep irritation being deemed an idiot. He leans in as Solomon elaborates, eyes widening. "The shit that goes on in this city," he murmurs. "You're on a lot of trails. Your clawed fingers everywhere. Nothing should be forced into a fighting ring, though. Can't believe you made me sympathetic to bugs. Do you have a plan?" Solomon sighs. "Not really," he admits. "My concern is--this is freelance genetic engineering. Do you have any idea what sort of funding that suggests? It's a multi-city network, and a massive gambling ring. I want to destroy it. But _realistically_, I'm one guy with a few tricks up my sleeve. If they were monsters, that'd be enough. But they're human, and likely well-connected, powerful, and wealthy. With a lot of money invested in this shit. I don't have an angle." "Might be something to bring up at another Allthing. Maybe when this fire spirit stuff is handled." Darwin shrugs. "If you find a way to proceed and you're short a wolf, let me know." He sets his empty glass down with a quiet clink. "Thanks for... the texts," he mumbles vaguely. Solomon snorts. "The vampires would probably ghoul whoever's in charge and run it through them," he points out, with a touch of bitterness. "People would mostly be delighted that it's not dogs. Something _cute_. Giant bugs? Who cares." More than a touch of bitterness. But then there's that last, and he blinks. "I...well. You're welcome. And thank you. For putting up with my drunk texting." "Dogs aren't cute," Darwin counters. "They're all... rounded off and small. Not their fault." He can, at least, appreciate the tribulations that come with championing uncharismatic mega-fauna. "People care. People will care, if you explain it." He smiles a little. "You're lucky you didn't get hit by a bus or mugged. How's your arm?" "Dogs can be very fucking cute," Solomon is quick to respond. "I don't dis dogs. Just don't think that the degree to which people care about your problems should be dictated by how cute and snuggly you are." The grumpiness suggests that goes a bit beyond animals. But there's a flash of something like a smile at the compliment. "I've handled many a drunken night on the town. And the arm has healed up completely." He touches it lightly, where the teeth hit. "Didn't even scar." "Oh good." Darwin looks genuinely relieved. "Surely there's some kind of bandaid fairy around, right? There's gotta' be!" He pauses. "Jessup," he tips his head as if trying to hear better. "Are you implying that you're not cute and snuggly behind that mask of yours?" Solomon chuckles. "Some of us can heal. I don't know anyone that I'd feel comfortable asking unless it was a serious issue, though." At the teasing, he scowls, falling instantly into Full Embarrassed Grump Mode. "I know precisely what I am, Pace. Neither of those words particularly describe it. And I advise you to remember that I can fill your drama lab with spiders at the flick of a finger." Darwin realizes, then, that he is /direly/ curious about what this actually looks like. "Yes... I will remember." He tips his palms up, his smile easy. "I have a healthy fear of what you're capable of, I promise. Show me one day?" "You wouldn't like it," Solomon says, bluntly. "There's chitin involved. More than there used to be, even." He shrugs. "But one day, if I'm in the right mood, maybe." He sniffs. "Anyway. I'll cover the bill for lunch, of course. You can catch the next one, if you want." He glares a bit, as if challenging Darwin to resist the implication that there _will_ be another lunch. "Great. Doubly great." Darwin studies the glare, unsure of the threat there, looking at him like 'what!?' Changelings are weird. WHATEVER. "Yeah sure sounds good. We can trade off. Next time I'm ordering more than just bacon if it's on your dime." He pivots to head out. "Can't /believe/ it's your territory..." | |