10_20_15_5_50 | trash werewolf meet trash witch

trash werewolf meet trash witch

Loathesome lunchboxes. Battlebots. Little shits. Tinshits. Toaster terrors. Pseudo-scraplets.

There were a lot of names for the small, swarming clockwork constructs that tore appliances apart in order to build new members of their mob. They weren't exactly aggressive, since they hadn't actually attacked anyone, but they were insatiable; if left unchecked, they would've gutted half of Housewares and savaged every toy with a winding mechanism before spilling out to dismantle each vending machine, scooter, and car between their numbers and the wide world beyond Walmart. Deena Johnston, her Assistant Manager, and their crew of talented, eccentric employees, probably would've been able to handle the clockworkers on their own.... but Sam had been happy to help. Darnell had been with her at the time, and although he'd also been happy to help, he didn't seem to have quite as much fun as she'd had. Then again....

...Darnell hadn't had the privilege of seeing the Assistant Manager take a fucking forklift as its weapon of choice. Sam had had a fantastic time, leaving with a new love of Houston, generous new friends, arms slightly sore from smashing, a lifetime supply of chicken nuggets (with some wiggle room permitting the occasional ice cream cone or coffee) and the knowledge that whoever had created the first little shit was still out there, somewhere, possibly making more.

The infestation that had alarmed ~~and offended~~ Deena was bad, insofar as it did several thousand dollars' damage, but it could've been much, much worse. The clockworks could've financially crippled families, students, normal people, anyone who couldn't afford to have their car totalled outside of an explainable, insured accident, and they could've crippled or killed people outright by cutting out some function---like breaks, or signal lights!---of a car in motion. The clockworker was unlucky, or irresponsible, or bastardous; the creator of a problem which could be a problem for other people, at any time. The silver lining of the potentiality of this problem was slim, but not insignificant, and obvious to anyone who knew what Sam knew only as 'the phone rite.'

Four phonebooks from different cities, open to the help line pages; a very small bottle of red wine; a windowless room with four corners, one for each phonebook; a phone. That was all anyone needed, though Sam also sat with a piece of scrap paper on which she'd written which numbers corresponded with which letters when dialing, just to spare herself an 'oops,' if she could. The skin-witch drank the wine as quickly as she could, since it was sample-sized and cheap, not exactly to be enjoyed, and started to spin the bottle, taking a digit from the largest-font help hotline in whatever book the bottle pointed out. Ten digits in, it was time to spell out her problem.

SMALLCANNIBALISTICCLOCKWORKCONSTRUCTS - 762552266422547842256259675 2667878287

If someone shared her problem, their phone would ring. If several someones shared her problem, one of their phones would ring at random. If she were lucky, whoever had a ringing phone would answer it, despite the absence of any call display. If she were really lucky, that someone would be Deena, or Darnell, or the Assistant Manager, because the clockworks weren't a problem for anyone they weren't a problem for three years ago.

The phone rang, and Sam held her breath.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Okay, try it now!"

It was a true testament to the ratio of maturity in the room that, when the upright video game machine simply let out some tragic little beep-boops and sputters, the actual child simply frowned mildly and propped his chin in one hand, while the supposed adult smacked her forehead against the blunt corner and let out a string of profanity.

"Shitfuckgoddamnwhatthefuuuu-- frick," Saxsice finished up, seeming to remember that there was a child present a little late. Her ten-year-old son, Ryan, glanced around the side of the Battle Road Envy 5000 machine and silently arched an eyebrow. In response, she stuck her tongue out, ever the pinnacle of grace and good parenting. "I know, I know, don't tell your teachers I cuss like that."

"It's summer," was Ryan's quiet comment, going back to pressing the start button -- gently, only once or twice, rather than hammering it into oblivion like Saxsice would've. Sometimes it felt like he'd gotten every ounce of level-headedness she was supposed to get, while her own calm was replaced with anxiety and yelling.

Mostly anxiety, because while the off-brand racer game had been on sale for shockingly cheap online, Saxsice had still needed to juggle her mostly-maxed-out credit cards to get it, counting on the potential of the game pulling in more customers to help her at least break even. But despite working perfectly when the seller had demonstrated how to turn it on and off and retrieve the coins from inside, after being wrestled into the bar itself, the damn thing refused to work. Now it was little more than a person-sized paperweight, destined to gather dust in the corner, next to the jukebox that only played Cyndi Lauper and showtunes.

Saxsice smacked her forehead against the corner of the video game again, more emphatically, trying not to think about the looming bills -- rent, utilities, liquor license, supplies, not to mention the care and keeping of a kid that she hadn't planned on actually raising. It had been almost three months since Ryan had showed up on her doorstep (long story), and while having him around was a goddamn delight, he still needed to eat and have clothes and school supplies and stuff. Maybe she could pick up a parttime job? With all her...free time that wasn't spent running a business and being a single parent?

"Maybe I can just set the whole damn place on fire," Saxsice mumbled, barely registering when the phone behind the counter began to ring shrilly. "I bet the insurance money would pay off this damn thing. We can move to...I dunno, Colorado and raise sheep. Are there sheep in Colorado?"

Huffing a little sigh, Ryan crossed over and climbed up onto one of the stools against the bar, reaching over and grabbing the cordless phone, letting his mother ramble about sheep in the background. Someone had to be professional, after all, so he answered, piping in a polite, but clearly belonging-to-a-literal-child voice: "On The Rocks Bar and Eatery, how can I help--"

"Are there sheep in Colorado?!"

"--you?"

Since Sam had been ready for just about anything (made much easier by past castings; a lot paled in comparison to cold-calling 'Lord Commander Starscream, Supreme Leader of the Decepticon Army' who, hilariously, had no way to *69 the ring) she didn't miss a beat in answering. “Hi, there. You can, please, believe me when I tell you this isn't a crank call? Though I know my saying that, much like my saying 'you don't know me, but---!' is maybe a red flag. I'm sorry to bug you, but I just want to know if you've had any appliances seemingly sabotaged, or even stolen? The sort of sh---stuff someone might blame on gremlins or vandals?” Also if you've seen any weird little battlebot lookin' machines skittering around? was another worthwhile question, but probably a bit much. She wanted an answer, not to be hung up on.

(but before she got either)

"And for what it's worth, I'm pretty sure there are sheep in Colorado. Dunno 'bout their population density, though. Sheep per square K could be anything, for that I haven't even got a guess. Sorry."

"Ohhhh, okay. One moment, please." Ever the good customer service representative, Ryan even covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand before informing his mother: "There are sheep in Colorado, but the per square K could be anything." After a beat, he returned to the conversation with Sam, asking politely: "What's a square K?"

"Kilometer," Saxsice muttered, her face still smushed against the corner of the video game cabinet. "It's British. Canadian. Basically everywhere not-the-USA." Then, as an afterthought, "Don't talk to strangers."

"I'm not, I'm talking to someone on the phone," Ryan informed her matter-of-factly, before picking up the main reason for the phone call. "Is a video game an appliance? It's a really big one, the kind in arcades and it's not working for some reason."

“And it's not like this someone is asking you any sketchy questions. I'mma stick to machines, missing parts, and malfunctions, with the only exception being something like 'do you have a pen and paper handy?' Actually, do you? And do please forgive me, I don't mean to be rude and leave your question unanswered---an arcade style video game, I would consider an appliance, sure.” A part of Sam was marvelling at how well the conversation was going, in spite of its circumstances. “Is that the only thing you've got around which isn't working? As far as appliances go, I mean. TVs and computers and dvd players and other electronics, not really of interest right now.”

Ryan nods thoughtfully, twisting around on the stool to look back at the video game, where Saxsice has finally given up her moping and is standing, hands on her skinny hips. "Well, the jukebox doesn't work. And neither do any of the appliances upstairs, like the toaster and blender and stuff. But Mom says that's cause they're all cheap old pieces of sh--"

"--hhhhey, none of that, gimme," Saxsice breaks in, swooping over and snatching the phone from her kid's hand. "Stop givin' strangers bad impressions of me, munchkin." Ryan is unperturbed, ducking free of her hair-ruffle and bolting off, with an over-the-shoulder "gonna get a pen!"

She watches him go for a moment, huffing out a bemused sigh and shaking her head. "Bye, I guess?" Then she takes his abandoned seat, cradling the phone against her ear. "Hi, who's this? Are you askin' whether our fridge's runnin'? Cause that joke stopped bein' funny in 1953."

But how recently did the toaster and blender and stuff stop working---? was what Sam would've asked, if she'd only had a chance before the boy was unfortunately interrupted, but she had to admit she was lucky; she still had someone to talk to, rather than empty air on the other end.

“Hi, my name is Sam, I'm not trying to sell you squat, but I am trying to figure out a pattern for unexplained mechanical failures. I'm not sure why I was patched through to this number, I did not design the problem-input process, and I won't be able to redial you sincethat'sjustthewaythesystemworkssopleasedon'thangup!” She rushed through the plea, aware 'I won't be able to redial you,' was enough to prompt some people to hang up immediately. Those people were assholes. “I'd like to leave you with an email address, so that you can get a hold of me if something does crap out in a weird way. That's what the pen's all about.”

Saxsice listens to this thoughtfully, gnawing at her thumbnail and mentally trying to weigh out whether this is legitimate or not. She sure isn't being sold anything, but she's also suspicious as hell, just by nature. Still...the video game is crapping out. Spectacularly.

"Uh-huh. Gotcha. So...what are you gonna be able to do about all the crappy appliances?" Then, after a beat: "Also this sounds like some magic shit. Are you with the werewolf mafia?"

The first question was really only reasonable, but it gave a part of Sam pause. She personally couldn't do much more than ask around her social circle (she had a few friends good at getting things to work again, and none among the few would resent being volunteered, especially if she was onto something with the connection of the call) but finding a way to explain that without sounding sketchy could take a minute's careful consideration... or more. Fortunately, the part of Sam given pause did not include her mouth, which was very good at going on glibly to buy her brain a bit more time.

“Damage control mostly, maybe? But I have a few friends who travel extensively with their work, and, with that travel, have gotten good at fixing things cause they've had to figure out their own fixes to keep moving, and maybe one could swing by for a look at whatever isn't working. Best case scenario? You get a free fix; two of the three guys I can think of are really just big kids at heart and would want to get your game working so that they could play it. The third guy isn't so much---he's kinda the straight man---but he does like video games, so still. Middle ground? Someone stops by, attempts repairs, fails, feels bad, orders a meal before leaving and tips a lot. Worst case scenario? You've got gremlins.” Sam was only half-joking, but still spoke with an audible smile. “But if it comes to that, I will come by to help stomp the little shits. I'm assuming you're stateside, by the way, off what I've overheard.”

'Also this sounds like some magic shit,' was kind of a curveball, and it made Sam wish with the force of a rear-ending that she could see the other woman's aura, but she talked on. “I'm not with any mafia; I'm a free agent with no criminal record. I got checkers, but no checkered past.” Chargers, checkers, ponies; did any of the slang Sam associated with the occult underground mean anything to this lady? It was a little litmus test.

Saxsice is the queen of skeptical caution -- always has been, from the time she was a teenager, and even more so these days with a kid to protect -- so the slick talking alone doesn't get her hackles down. But the specifics (this person apparently has a three-man crew that can straight-up smash whatever's infesting her appliances, and she can respect someone who's connected) do, to some extent, and she even relaxes enough to get up and walk around the bar, grabbing for the jar of maraschino cherries she keeps there.

"Long as I don't gotta pay them and they won't rob me blind, I'm open to anythin'. I'm in the hole buyin' this stupid thing, and I can't exactly afford to be there long." Saxsice twists open the jar one-handed, then cradles the phone against her ear. "Also what's checker's gotta do with anythin'? You sayin' I should go into board games, instead'a video?"

She crams two or three cherries into her mouth, then chuckles, almost choking on them. "Hah, gremlins. Only gremlin I got's just turned ten and won't stop eatin' me outta house and home." Speaking of whom, Ryan skids back into the room, pen and paper in hand.

"Got it! Oh, cherries--" He makes a grab for the jar, prompting Saxsice to hold it up above her head, sticking her tongue out. "Mom, seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously. You'll spoil your appetite." Another couple cherries get devoured, then Saxsice remembers to ask: "Why'd you need a pen again? Email somethin'? And yeah, we're stateside. California."

“Nah, man, I'm serious when I say any of these guys would be satisfied with three to six free plays as payment. And you'll probably make a decent sale for food and/or drink to whoever gets in. When someone might swing by is a little iffy, since I don't know where these guys are at the time of this call, but I'll give 'em your preferred window, if you wouldn't mind telling me when that might be. And if you don't mind telling me who I'm talking to, so I can tell 'em who to ask for?” The questions prompted a small, amused sound from Sam, for different reasons; either this woman had nothing to do with adepts, or was adept in sidestepping, and “God, no, board games and booze are a terrible idea. Probably. I'm thinking you'd lose pieces so fast, to say nothing of escalating arguments what kick off with 'you hellacious cheat!' Though... yelling does make people thirsty, and I guess it would depend on how easily or cheaply missing pieces could be replaced? Like, okay, Clue is mostly cards; replacing all those cards, and even the board, would be a matter of laminated paper, and the colour-coded markers are probably five ninety-nine for a pack of three hundred off Amazon. So certain board games might work surprisingly well. If you do so a test run with Clue, I hope you'll tell me how it works out.”

Quieting for the overheard almost-argument, Sam couldn't help but grin. This wasn't only her most successful use of the phone rite; now, it was in the running for her favourite. “A pen for my email address, if you'd like to jot it down so you can contact me to say if you've got any additional weird breakdowns or malfunctions beyond the game, and the old appliances. Or even if any of the aforementioned start doing something really weird, that your ravenous gremlin cannot be blamed for. It's girafittifishes-at-hotmail-dot-com, only with numbers replacing the vowels and each S, so G-1-R-4-F-1-T-T-1-F-1-5-H-3-5. Not super professional, I know, but it's memorable. California? Nice. I say this with a buttload of bias, coming from a subarctic climate. What city are you in?”

"My window is, uhhh...anytime?" Saxsice shrugs, even though the person on the other end can't see her, still cradling the phone against her ear and methodically polishing off the cherries. Ryan props his chin in both hands, giving her a very displeased sort of scowl, but she ignores him, like a good parent. "I mean, I live above the bar, so I'm always here. Don't really got a social life."

"You sleep til noon, though," Ryan pipes up, getting his hair ruffled up for his trouble.

"Yeah, I sleep til noon. Name's Saxsice King, easy to remember." It isn't, not remotely, but it's sure as hell memorable. She sets the mostly-empty jar of cherries on the counter, making grabbyhands for the pen and paper -- equivalent exchange and all that, and her kid's more than happy to make the trade. "Yeah, no, you're right, I'd probably do somethin' dumb like bring out Monopoly and ruin someone's childhood friendship or marriage or somethin'. That game's lethal."

But she carefully scribbles out the email, repeating each word aloud, then nodding triumphantly. "Gotcha, if stuff goes pear-shaped, give you a message. Cool cool cool. We're down in LA, the grimy bit. What's your name, anyways?" Ryan, sitting on the other side of the bar and ruining his dinner with maraschinos, rolls his eyes that it's taken his mother this long to ask.

“Oh, that makes things easy. And 'anytime after noon' should be easy, too. Alright, yeah. Never come across that name before, not going to forget it now.” 'Saxsice' sounded like... some storied figure fated to clash with the nuckelavee, or some other equally exotic monster. “Monopoly would be a big no, and someone'll flip a table over Trouble-slash-Sorry, but I think Clue, Killing Dr. Lucky, and maaaybe that Betrayal At The House on the Hill---if that's the name of the game?---would be safe, but I digress.”

I digress like whoa.

But then she was being asked for her name, and Sam almost startled; she hadn't expected the conversation to come this far, and ah, shit shit shit flickered across a marquee in her mind. Her first instinct was a fake last name after having offered her first, but 'Demaire' had way too much trouble attached to it... and it didn't feel fair. And, anyway, she was trying to help out, while talking to a woman who had already given her name and location, in another country. Even if the call was a little weird, Saxsice had no reason to want to make trouble for her, and even if she did for no good reason, it probably wouldn't be a priority; not with a kid and business and a newly-bought game what wasn't working.

“Sam Patchowski.”

Someday, perhaps, when they actual meet in person and become buddies, Saxsice will explain the strange backstory of her name...which is that she just mixed up the letters in her given name and called it good. So...not that strange, actually. But for now she just chuckles, doodling on the piece of paper. "Clue might work. For the more chill crowd. I used to get all kinds of wackos, but my image has been, uh...slightly altered lately." The completely unhinged customers have not-so-subtly been told they aren't welcome around the place anymore, and even the rougher ones have either cleared out or cleaned up their act, aware now that there's a child present. Even if Ryan's never actually in the bar when it's open, his presence is felt more and more often. Saxsice hasn't decided yet if that's a good or bad thing.

"Paaaatchowski," she mumbles, sounding it out and scribbling it down. "Nice to meetcha, Sam. I mean, as it were. And I reserve the right to take that back if you do end up bein' a scammer."

“If you try it, I really do want to hear how it goes. I would ask about your before-and-after image, but I feel that might still be overstepping, considering I called outta the blue?” Sam's tone made it clear that Saxsice was welcome to offer any information she wanted to, while Sam wasn't expecting anything. “Yep, all for perogies and noodles fried with sauerkraut if the -ski didn't say so loud enough already. And that's fair. And I apologize, but I'm having a bit of a brainfart for timezones, so I'm sorry if I caught you at an inopportune hour.”

"Nah, you're good, you haven't asked for my credit card number yet," Saxsice says cheerfully, hopping up to sit cross-legged on the bar. This gets a perturbed grumble from her son, who just cleaned that, and she's wearing shoes, ew. She ignores him. "Don't got any sauerkraut for ya, Sammy, but I meant what I said about the nachos. And it's all good, hour's just fine. I don't have anythin' goin' on."

Almost automatically, Ryan cranes his neck to look at the clock and pipes up: "You gotta open in an hour."

Saxsice makes a face, looking at the clock as well. "Well, just kiddin', I gotta open in an hour and we're outta little cocktail umbrellas. They really give the place a whatsit...jenny say kwah."

Je ne sais quoi, she means.

“I haven't asked for your credit card number, and I will not ask for your credit card number, but, y'know, I am gonna ask; why not on the sauerkraut? Haluski seems like a seriously bar- and budget-friendly food, given you'll never be out on spoilage; sauerkraut keeps for like four months, dried noodles, and the rate though which you've gotta go through bacon already? But---” Sam broke off there, laughing at herself. “But I do like nachos, and should stop with the unsolicited advice. I'm sorry. Me and my mouth.”

That mouth had nothing on Saxsice's French, though. For one thing, Sam was not that fuckin' rude. For another, anyone who would make some stink about pronounciation would find something else to make a stink about, anyway. Who had the time to unpack that? She didn't, and neither did her new friend, since sixty minutes did not last long before or after work.

“I should probably let you go then, eh? Good luck getting your little umbrellas in.”

That gets a bemused chuckle, and Saxsice pauses to ask her kiddo -- "Hey, whatcha think about sauerkraut Saturdays? Give folks half-off on a plate?" Ryan's response is clearly some kind of elaborate grimace, because she cackles and replies to Sam with "Nah, probably not the right target audience for some 'kraut, which means me and the munchkin'll have to eat it all ourselves."

She double-checks that the email is written out correctly, then checks the clock again. "Yeah, gotta skedaddle. 'ppreciate the call, though. I'll drop you a line if anythin' weird happens. Have fun in, uh...the far northland."

"Nothing wrong with that!" Since Sam was now mostly teasing, she continued undaunted. "Sauerkraut is good for you, and we know carbs and bacon make everything better, but this has the excuse of a vegetable base no picky eater can part from the other stuff. And if worse comes to worse, you've got something ya kid won't nick when you're not looking."

It was all very logical, but Sam still gave up on the act/her argument when it became work to hold her giggles back.

"Thank you for that. Have a good shift; I'm sure I'll find some trouble soon, and more than enough entertainment along with it. Bye---but wait, props on such a polite and professional kid. Okay, now bye." 'Bye,' came with the click of a call ending, though Sam's appreciation had been audible and honest.

Saxsice snickers a little as she hangs up, informing her son -- who had only like two cherries, because he possesses self-control, and is now putting the jar away -- "Hey, you're polite and professional, FYI."

Ryan nudges the jar into place and gives her a patient look. "Yeah, I know."

Overall things stay quiet for about another three or four days, give or take. Then, one evening (California time), Sam will get an email in her inbox, written very politely and professionally:

Hello Ms. Patchowski,

I'm sorry if you don't use "Ms." but I forgot to ask what you do like, so if you don't like it you can say so, that's fine.

We're emailing because something popped off the video game and ran across the floor and disappeared behind the bar. Mom called it a bunch of words I'm not allowed to say and tried to kill it with a broom. That wasn't successful.

I tried to get it out and it bit me or pinched me or something, but it's okay, nothing needs to be amputated.

Please could you give us some advice because mom wants to set the bar on fire and collect the insurance money and move to Tahiti and I have school Monday so we can't.

Thank you very much.

Ryan King (from California).

Less than a minute later, there's another message, from the same email address, but much less professional:

sam the little fcker bit my kid i'm gonna kcik it's ass can u show me how thanx.

The first reply came about ten minutes after Ryan's initial email, and only because Sam had had to read his twice to be sure she didn't miss addressing anything when she answered: 'Hi, Ryan. Ms. is fine, but just Sam is also fine. I'm sorry you got hurt. Please tell your mom a bat or a crowbar or something will work better than a broom. These things get pretty gimped up when struck by blunt objects. Sharp weapons aren't great because one half can go scuttling away like the Alien aliens, but crushing means a functional half might drag dead weight. They will disassemble other items to build more like themselves, even shitty broken stuff. Keep an eye on your appliances! You can use them as bait. You can also use audio clips of malfunctioning machines or even internet dial up. They won't attack directly but they are dangerous because collateral damage. I'm coming down ASAP. Maybe an hour. Hang tight ok?'

Her next email came a little later---after phoning Deena, after driving to Walmart, after snatching up her grab bag from the passenger seat and starting across the parking lot. It was as straightforward as Saxsice's, reading 'OMW see you shortly'

"She said an hour, so she means an hour. I don't think she'd lie to us."

This patient, reasonable line of conversation was met by a wordless growling grumble, which prompted Ryan to roll his eyes -- lovingly, respectfully, but exasperatedly. "We can't dig it out and kill it because it's dangerous. Sam said so. Collateral damage," he added, repeating verbatim what the email had said.

Saxsice didn't have a response for that, at least not a verbal one. Instead she indicated that she wanted to look at her son's injury once more, liberally covered in bandaids, giving it a thorough look-over. It had just been a sharp pinch, not even hard enough to break the skin, but naturally she had lost her darn mind over it, and was now on the rampage. Evidenced by the fact that, when Ryan obediently surrendered the hand, she licked it.

...she was also currently an enormous (almost four feet tall at the shoulder), fluffy white wolf, which had something to do with that too.

Ryan was used to such happenings, and had already grabbed an extra change of clothes in the event that his mom managed to control her emotions enough to transform back. It didn't seem likely, though. Even her message to Sam had been typed out with her nose, too angry and hostile to even consider the zen-like mindset that would enable her to be human again.

Of course, like any canine, the second there was a knock on the door (or a ring on the busted doorbell), Saxsice's ears pricked up and she barreled forward, barking. Unlike most dogs, her barks were low and resonant enough to rattle the windows.

“Hello?” The call came moments after the knock, and again, louder, to be heard over the barking. It certainly sounded like Sam, if more businesslike than she'd been while suggesting sauerkraut. “Hello?”

Undeterred by the presence of a big boofer, and perhaps also ~~impatient~~ antsy, (for want of a better word; 'eager' was wrong, and 'anxious' was wrong, but antsy was better, since she knew how quickly one loathesome lunchbox could create many, many more) Sam didn't try the doorbell next, but the door. It opened easily, and as she limped through---wary of the ~~dog~~ wolf but not actually afraid---Ryan and Saxsice could see their cold-caller was an extensively tattooed young woman wearing badly torn jeans and a t-shirt instructing readers to eat your kimchi. She had a small backpack over one shoulder, a crowbar in hand, and a look of bemused concern on her face at the sight of the big fuckin' beast before her.

“Holy shit,” Sam said, before adding, “Be cool.”

The bar is the sort of unassuming, hole-in-the-wall place that you'd overlook unless it was 2am and you were really thirsty and/or hankering for a plate of mediocre mozzarella sticks, sandwiched between two other similar buildings, with narrow alleys to either side, a shabby brick affair with shuttered windows above speaking of over-the-business living space. Inside it's...much the same, scratched tables and booths, creaky floors and lightbulbs that flickered periodically. It's meticulously clean, though, and anyone who wandered in wanting nothing more than edible food would likely be reassured -- and, even, amused -- by the corner at the back with the notorious video game and jukebox.

The bigass white wolf is a little incongruous, even as she settles back on her haunches, ears perked up, golden eyes fixed unblinking on Sam. Ryan, for his part -- wide-eyed, brunette, small for his age, looking barely eight or nine, even though his vocabulary spoke of someone at least in upper elementary school, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt -- had lunged out of his chair and locked both arms around the wolf's neck, though the idea of someone so little doing anything to deter the beast is laughable.

"We're cool," he said, fingers buried to the knuckles in white fur. The wolf is as tall as he is, but she lets him tug her face around so he can repeat, seriously: "We're cool, right?" She grumbles, flicking an ear back towards Sam, then wagging her tail once, a silent acquiescence. Ryan sighs heavily, keeping his scrawny arms wrapped around the wolf and offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry. This kinda...happened unexpectedly."

'Please,' 'open sesame,' and 'arglefraster,' notwithstanding, 'we're cool,' were the magic words Sam needed to hear to completely close the already almost-shut door behind her, and continue despite the still-substantial surprise of an enormous wolf. “No big. Sh---stuff happens.” As she answered Ryan, her eyes moved over the wolf, and the kid, and the kid, and the wolf, as Sam tried to study their auras without squinting. The big thing was no notable harm had come to the kid---there were the bandaids on his hand, sure, but no dark smudge in his aura to indicate an injury---and the wolf had a lot happening, but nothing seemed to be a problem, so. Priorities.

“Where's your mom? And is the thing just behind the bar or has it crammed itself behind paneling or anything? Can you show me? And have you heard anything weird around the building, or yet inside the game case?” Serious and businesslike, but not unsympathetic, Sam was again letting her mouth go, while rifling through a mental rolodex of what might've happened in the time it had taken her to haul her ass over.

That's a lot of questions at once, and Ryan is still doing his best to hold back the preternaturally-sized wolf, who has started slowly walking forward once more. It's more or less like watching someone try to hold back one of those bigass beer horses. But he tries, digging his heels in as best he can.

"Uhmmmm, under the bar, in the cabinets I think. Where we keep glasses. I think it broke a couple. And some stuff, but there's always noises around here." Those questions get answered first, as Ryan clearly feels the answer to the first one is evident. He finally circles around to it, right as the wolf gets close enough to lean out and sniff at Sam's pant cuff, delicately. "She's...right here?"

Is this a trick question? The wolf sits down again, looking up with bright, intelligent eyes, then breaking into a wolfy, toothy grin. Clearly the kiddo had assumed she'd disclosed the whole "also I'm a shapeshifter" thing. Bemused, she lifts one paw, bigger than a human hand, and offers it.

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omg that face

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Phone taaag

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