7:02pm, 17 October 2009
Manchester, New Hampshire

Woks-the-Dog.

That was the glorious suggestion one Ragabash Fostern gave for a new name to commemorate the Get's valorous victory over slimy goo.

Paul took a deep breath.

He had declined the name--it would never cease to needle Ben, who had already shown his Contrition--but he knew full well that the Fianna might keep it alive, notwithstanding.

He took another deep breath, and called out. "Claudia-rhya?"

A convoluted path had brought him to the Warder's Den. After the problems at Moira's, he had helped Naydene and Claudia to clean up the safehouse. Passing through the Bawn the evening after the cleansing, one of the Fianna--you know, the tipsy one--had jogged his arm and asked if he was Fostern yet. That puzzled Paul, but he shrugged and put it out of his mind. After all, Greg was a tipsy Ragabash fratboy. But when Gareth made a veiled comment, Paul's ears began to burn.

Naturally, it wasn't until Fenris appeared in a dream, jaws gently wrapped around Paul's throat in a show of dominance, that he really took it to heart.

Paul knew what he needed to learn. He was too far from the Ways of the Wolf, and he needed to learn the more lupine ways of living. And, being both Get and Ahroun, he was already well-versed in how to throat things: he should probably learn a bit more about the more ritual side of his Garou nature. so, even though his Challenge should probably have been made to Naydene, he asked her permission to take it to Claudia.

He never quite figured out why she gave that tiny smile when she nodded.

11:32 pm, 21 October 2009
South of Manchester, New Hampshire

The leaves crunched under Paul's padded feet as he ambled through the woods a half-mile from the interstate.

Claudia's response had come a day later: she would take his Challenge. In a few days' time, he was to lope down to Salem, Massachusetts, and meet up with some folks there who would tell him what to do next. In the meantime, he was to seclude himself and go on a water fast.

Paul's stomach growled as he loped on. He was really damned hungry, but he knew that if he stopped for a bite, the people on the other end of the line would know he had failed, and that would be the end of it.

1:43 pm, 22 October 2009
Salem, Massachusetts

Paul felt a small degree of relief as he approached the address he had been given. He was unsteady on his feet from hunger, and ragged-looking from the journey. The trailer in front of him looked rather unkempt: weeds dominated the vegetable garden, broken motorcycles littered the front lawn, and a cleverly cut-up two-liter Coke bottle twirled gently in the wind, suspended from one of the eaves. The astroturf felt odd, even through his shoes, compared to the undergrowth he had been running on for the past day. He could have sworn he smelled a little incense, which reminded him of Sue (who, thankfully, seemed to understand the need for a short absence).

Perhaps it was because he was expecting an emaciated mystic to open the door that Paul gasped when Rambo appeared on the other side of the doorway.

Rambo immediately frowned. "What?"

The short litany Claudia had given him to repeat evaporated from his mind. "Um, I'm Paul. Claudia sent me."

Rambo seemed unimpressed.

Paul remembered what he was actually supposed to say, with a lurch. "I am Light-Bringer, sent with the wind at the request of Chewer-of-Ears, here to show the majesty of Fenris."

Rambo rolled his eyes and pulled the door further open, walking toward a table and a steaming mug of coffee. Paul took that as an invitation to enter.

The trailer lived up to the reputation its kind has for being cramped. Paul had to duck when he stepped up through the doorway, and nearly had to bend to keep from brushing his head on the ceiling. He noticed that Rambo *did* have to.

"So why are you here?"

"Claudia sent me down. She told me to ask you."

Rambo looked up at Paul from his seat. He had offered Paul neither a seat nor coffee. "So you don't know what's going on."

A flash of frustration flew through Paul's mind, before he realized this must be one of Claudia's tests: get the Get to admit he doesn't know. "No, I don't."

Instead of the enigmatic smile of approval he expected, Paul was on the receiving end of a can of whup-ass.

"You don't know?" The anger was palpable as the huge man stood up from his seat. "You don't KNOW what's going on?" he roared, pointing his finger in Paul's face. "You come barging in here to show me the MAJESTY of Fenris and you have no fucking clue what's going on? You're showing me Fenris' ASS, idiot! You had better straighten up and get your shit together before the rest of the guys get here." Rambo slammed his mug of coffee into the tiny sink, sloshing brown liquid all over the counter, and he began muttering to himself, as much for Paul's benefit as his own. "I'm the only goddamn Get Kinfolk on this team, and I have to tell the fraggin' /squad leader/ what's going on. Fuck this."

Paul realized he had probably misjudged things. Badly.

6:09 pm, same day

"It's a bit past six, so why don't we get started." Paul called the roaming men to order from his seat at the table. A map was spread out in front of him.

Rambo was really Oscar. After cooling down some, he had patiently--if patronizingly--explained to Paul that he had been expecting a squad leader to come down from Manchester to lead an assault on a gun-runner down in Connecticut. Paul knew that the Warder had not misled either man, but had certainly given him partial information.

The other men roaming around outside the trailer moved in closer to hear Paul, though they had expressions of contempt for the committee-style Paul started off with. Too many meetings at the shelter. Oswald--the sniper, of course--leaned against the counter while he cleaned the barrel of his rifle. He was a Strider Ahroun with a long, dark face. Terry, the burly Fianna, burped and hiccupped in quick succession as he ambled to lean on the wall behind Paul. A Ragabash who was introduced only as Eeyore fidgeted by the door. Why were the fidgety ones always demolitions experts?

"Here's the map of Ares Shipping in Hazardville. We approach from 93, three miles to the west. The objective is to get as many files as we can--both paper and data--and destroy the building and inventory. Access is thr--"

"And the personnel. Gotta kill the personnel," Oscar interjected, with a harrumph.

That was the part Paul ws trying to gloss over. Oscar had been very clear that this was not supposed to be a delicate maneuver. Paul had been relatively surprised at that, and wasn't quite sure why Claudia would want him to do the thing she was always twitting the Get for doing. He made up his mind to quit second-guessing the Warder, because he had a zero percent accuracy rating so far, and it wasn't looking to pick up anytime soon.

Paul bristled at Oscar, putting in a bit more bravado than he was feeling. "And the personnel. Access is through a guarded fence. They have us out numbered--at least fifty of them--and outgunned--they smuggle guns, so we're sneaking in as plumbers. Oscar has fake credentials so we--"

"Fake, Hell! Some of us actually work for a liv--"

"--credentials so we can get in." Paul cut off Oscar's interruption with a snap. his patience with Oscar was wearing very thin. "Any questions?" he asked archly, looking up at Terry (*burp*) and over at Eeyore (#fidget#).

Oswald looked up from his cleaning, his mouth drooping open, a cigarette hanging from it.

"Yeah, Napoleon. You forgot to tell us your fucking plan."

5:19 am, 23 October 2009
Salem, Massachusetts

Paul crossed his arms and leaned against the tree. Oscar was still fooling around in his trailer, and everyone was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. He was reminded of the stereotypes of women and dates ("Just one more minute!") and realized how false they were.

A burp was the only announcement of Terry's arrival. The burly Fianna arrived with...*something* strapped across his back and a 60 of malt liquor in his hand. He dropped everything next to the tree and wandered off to take a piss.

Well, thought Paul, there's one.

Oscar slammed the door to his trailer with a surly look at Paul. "Got everything?" Paul called out, trying to be patient and supportive.

"Yes, /sir/," Oscar replied acidly.

If he smoked, Paul would have a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Oswald and Eeyore arrived in the sniper's old beater. They piled out and started loading things directly in the Henderson Plumbing van. Paul handed Oswald the uniform, and he took it, along with a hard-sided attache case and a bag full of things that clanked, into the back of the van.

Eeyore just pawed through his duffel and giggled telling Paul about how much fun he was going to have.

Paul reached down and took a cigarette off Terry's pack, lighting it with his Playboy bunny Bic.

Paul took a drag. So this is why people smoked.

1:03 pm, 23 October 2009
Near Hazardville, Connecticut

"We're here with Henderson Plumbing. They're expecting us."

The guard looked suspicious. "We don't have you on the schedule."

"It was an emergency. A pipe burst in the men's room." The guard narrowed his eyes, and Paul continued. "They must not have told you."

The guard's eyes were almost slits. "Sure," he said cautiously. "Go right in. Loading dock around the building to your right." He reached over to press the button to raise the barrier.

Paul rolled up the window and drove through, ignoring the wincing look Oscar was giving him. They were in.

The loading dock was enclosed on three sides by brick walls. A chain-link gate closed behind the van as they rolled in and killed the engine. Paul reached for the door handle when the windshield shattered and blew all over the inside of the van.

Paul and Oscar both slouched down and moved to the back of the truck. Oswald, who was apparently ready for an ambush, was already returning fire. Terry was making as if to get out the rear, while Eeyore just fumbled through his bag, looking from its contents toward the dock and back, as if searching for the right golf club. Oscar's contribution was to cuss a blue streak.

"Shut the Hell up, Oscar, give me a gun, and start shooting," Paul said. Oscar threw a Glock at Paul, uite nearly braining him, and returned fire himself. The crossfire had the bucket seats in front torn up, padding flying everywhere.

Suddenly, the gunfire from outside ended, and the sound of feet running away echoed in the small enclosure. Paul almost stuck his head out, but Oscar pulled him back as one last volley plowed into the side of the van next to where he would've stood up.

"Bitch, siddown," Oscar chided Paul, and motioned Eeyore up. Eeyore had apparently picked his club, and something small and round sailed onto the dock, followed by a small cannister. First an explosion rocked the van, then a cloud of smoke began to envelop the area. Paul turned around to see the others already in their gas masks, and hurriedly pulled his out of his pocket and put it on, feeling foolish once more.

"*Now* go!" Oscar shouted, and the others piled out of the truck along with Paul. They reached the loading dock, which was shrouded in smoke. Coughing came from various places in the storage room behind the door. Oswald began to fire at each bout of coughing, then moved so his noise couldn't be traced. The shots were usually followed by feet running, but in two cases he was rewarded with a shout of pain and a choking gurgle. Terry swung a long battleaxe with a brutal efficiency: apparently intoxication made him not only brave, but damned accurate with the heavy weapon.

Paul motioned forward and led the team toward the office off the dock. This was where the files would be. He led the team in, after checking at the door.

The office looked hastily evacuated. Coffee soaked into a pile of papers on one desk, and an almost-hung-up phone bleeped from the other desk. Terry and Oswald immediately began to sack the desks, while Paul gathered up all of the data disks in sight. Oscar rifled through the files, chanting "Fast! Fast! Fast!" at the top of his lungs.

"Goddammmit!" Eeyore shouted from one of the file cabinets. "The client file disks are missing1"

Oscar slammed his drawer shut. "That's what we need. They must've taken them when they ran." He looked at Paul. "So what now, /Captain/?" an honorific had never sounded so derisive. Paul resisted the impulse to smash his face in.

"Take all of the supplier files and throw them in the van, with these disks."

"Then?" Oscar asked.

"Then we blow the place."

Oscar shook his head. "Room to room search for those files. We need those most of all."

Paul flushed, and anger suffused him. Paul suppressed his rage once more. "Fine. -Fine-. So do it." Paul knew this was basically a license to kill, and the death toll would be high. But the blood wouldn't be on his hands this way: he could leave it up to Cap'n Oscar.

Oscar took this as a signal to take the helm. "Eeyore, help Paul get these files into the van, and start prepping your end of the show. Terry, you and Oswald come with me. We have some searching to do." With a malicious grin, he set off. Oswald gave a low, chittering laugh, and Terry belched loudly, finally dropping his now-empty bottle of Bull.

Eeyore practically bounced along as he and Paul carried armloads of files and disks back to the van. Sounds of random firefights exploded all around them, but did not last long. Thankfully, Ares had made the transition mostly to digital data storage, so the drawerful of unlabeled disks saved many trips back and forth for paper files.

While Paul carried the last few armloads back, fuming now over his loss of command, Eeyore fiddled with stuff in his bag. He had several charges prepped, of various incendiary sorts that would mimic a simple gunpowder explosion. The reason for the fire wouldn't have to be hidden: if this was discovered to be a weapons hideout, so much the better. The police would then be swarming around like ants to cut off the supply and go after the clients. Paul set it all up with him.

But this was the better way to do it, really. The job could get done, and Paul's hands would be minimally bloody: he would have stood up for his principles in the midst of a tough job. A few people would die in the explosions, but many were probably gone already.

Paul finished with the files. One sound drifted to his ear.

~"Yes, /sir/."~

But Oscar was just going to kill people wholesale. The other guys knew two people were leading this mission, and only one of them would let them play. So that's who they were following.

~"Yes, /sir/."~

No, that was enough. Only one person could lead this mission. Otherwise it would fall apart. Enough had already gone wrong that they needed to get it done, and get out.

~"Yes, /sir/."~

Oscar's voice had dripped acid. Finally, Paul had had enough. The still, small voice in his mind watched in horror as he slammed the door to the rest of the building open, a Glock in each hand and a few grenades nicked from Eeyore's pile in his pockets.

This was not Quaker Time. This was Get Time.

Paul followed the sounds of a fight toward the main storage area. He had only run into cursory resistance in the halls. Blood-spattered hallways told him this is the way the guys had come, and most of the fight was heading toward them now.

He burst into the main storage room and saw Oscar hunkered down behind a crate. The Kinfolk jumped when he eard the door open, and almost sent a stream of bullets through Paul's forehead.

"GodDAMNit, boy, you almost got yourself killed." He reched up and sent a volley of bullets toward another pile of crates, as if in token indication that he was not dead yet. Paul dove for the cover next to Oscar.

"We got separated by sniper fire," Oscar said. "Oswald is over there with Terry," he gestured toward another set of crates about twenty yards away, marked with FLAMMABLE in big red letters.

Paul watched for a moment. Only one stream of tracers was coming from the other bunker. Oscar filled in the information. "Terry's down. They've got silver bullets."

"*Fuck!*" Paul added eloquently, slamming an all-too-human fist against the crate. That drew an immediate volley of bullets. Paul stuck up his gun and fired back, yelling incoherently.

"Eeyore's ready, and the files are safe. All we've got to do is get out of here, and we can blow this place up."

"Dammmit, Paul can't you see we're pinned here?!"

The click of a hammer was all they needed to know that the Director of Ares Shipping was standing right over them in his Burberry trench coat. "Drop the guns and stand up slowly."

Oscar looked up in disbelief, then turned on Paul. "You little *shit*! You led him right to us! Your incompetent ass just screwed us all over." Oswald had not seen the Director yet, and was still exchanging fire with the others. "I *knew* we should have just blown the place sky-high from the start. But you wanted to *sneak* in and kill as few people as possible. You wanted a frigging 'surgical strike.'" The Kinfolk wheeled on the Get, much to the amusement of the Director, and screamed: "THE LAST TIME THAT WORKED WAS GRENADA, AND WE LOST THAT ONE TOO!"

Paul's face was red. He wheeled on Oscar and decked him with a right hook. The Director kept the gun on them both, laughing at the theatrics. Paul ignored him completely now. The fight was over, he had lost, and he damn well wanted to get a post-mortem in before they were all dead. The part of him that reeled in disgust was quickly hidden away as the fog of war fell.

"Don't you *ever* question my orders, you piece of crap!" Another right hook to the fallen, sneering Kinfolk. "I've had enough of your squeaking!" One more punch, with his left hand. Something thumped against his leg in the loose overalls. The grenade. Another right, then a left: the motion camouflaged a grab with his right hand for the concussion grenade in his right pocket. "You goddamned little bastard!"

He let out a howl he had learned. The Director's eyes widened, but even he didn't know what it was for. As he throttled Oscar, deliberately aiming for his shoulders now, he worked the connection he had to Gaia into a howl that he threw out to the winds. It was a stirring cascade of yelps that sounded, to an untrained human ear, sort of like a battle-cry. He felt the ascension of battle flood out of him and through the room. He could even see Oscar's eyes widen as he did it.

~Inspiration, Oswald. Just DO IT, goddammit!~

A single shot echoed through the small area, louder even than the firefight on the other side of the room. The Director slumped against the wall and crumpled, a bullet through his temple. Oswald smirked, then put his rifle down. As he did so, a bullet tore into his shoulder and he let out a yelp.

Paul instantly whirled, throwing the grenade toward the gunfire. Moments later, the concussion rocked the building.

"Go!" he shouted at the woozy Oscar. "Now!" Oscar, actually freaked out by now, but perversely inspired by seeing Paul finally kick into action, rolled onto his side and ran, careening down the hall.

With the other end of the room in confusion, Paul shifted into Crinos and ran to the other set of crates. Terry was in bad shape, but Oswald was conscious. "'Bout frigging time you did that," he muttered as Paul drew closer.

Paul picked up the limp Terry and threw him over his shoulder. "We've gotta run. That grenade was also Eeyore's signal."

Oswald's eyes widened. He knew what that meant. He trotted off, retracing his steps.

Paul almost set off down the hall after him, then stopped and turned around. He knelt next to the body of the Director, and rifled through his blazer. Ah yes, there was the disk.

With a smirk, Paul pocketed the disk and ran off down the hall, Terry weighing him down.

He reached the office right after the first set of explosions. Eeyore had been very efficient, apparently, and set a few charges in the other hallways, including several that would start violent fires. He could see Eeyore and Oscar waving him on from the back of the van, on the other side of the warehouse.

But that was when the second set of charges went off, the set on the roof. As he ran, Paul watched the ceiling crumple and begin to fall in on him. With a yell, he plowed through showers of bricks and plaster.

Then he saw the air conditioning unit falling, and it seemed like he wouldn't be able to stop in time. He skidded on the dust-covered floor as the world slipped into slow-motion. His legs hit the block of metal, inertia catapulting his top-heavy upper body forward. Terry flew toward the loading dock, while Paul continued his motion. He just knew he was ass-over-teakettle...but that sensation was somehow familiar...an image floated into his mind of swimming...a flip-turn.

And in moments, his feet hit the ground. He pushed off, giving a leap as the metal monster crashed to the ground behind him.

Paul was out of the entrance to the dock, and rolling towrd Terry, who was still rolling himself. They both tumbled off the edge of the dock and into the back of the van, helped by Oscar and Eeyore. Oswald slammed his foot down on the acclerator, and the van peeled out as the materiel inside the warehouse finally caught.

Oscar looked at Paul as they rocked down the road toward Hazardville. "It sure as Hell took you long enough."

Paul smirked. "It won't next time."

He let himself shift back to homid form. He should've taken on Oscar long before, instead of letting the conflict fester for so long. The Quaker was too much in the way.

But now, the Get was settling down: the lust for battle was ebbing. And the Quaker was looking around him once more, horrified at what he had seen and done.

Thankfully, Paul pulled over before the tuna sandwich he had for lunch made its reappearance on the dashboard, but Oscar looked distinctly peeved that Paul was tossing his cookies by the side of the road. Terry, for his part, looked rather impressed.

Paul climbed back up into the car and persuaded Oscar and the rest that he had gotten a whiff of the gas Eeyore had used on the way out, but he knew better. He knew it was revulsion at what he had to do to best this Challenge. He had the distinct feeling he had won the battle, but was losing the war.

3:21 am, 24 October 2009
Salem, Massachusetts

Paul looked up through the trees. He had curled up in lupine form beneath Oscar's trailer. Oscar was helping to mend Terry, and Oswald and Eeyore had gone home.

Paul, however, couldn't sleep, not even the sleep of the exhausted. His nose poked out past the tire, and he looked up at the stars.

Sure, he had killed before, but this time the Quaker wasn't letting the Get off the hook. It had only been once or twice, before. This time, it was over a dozen, probably--more, indirectly--and not in the unremembered haze of a Frenzy: these had been direct, face-to-face, and worst of all, coldly deliberate.

Self-loathing churned in Paul's stomach. He was disgusted with himself. Every time he tried to pass it off as something that had to be done, he would only remind himself that it could not be overlooked or explained away this time.

He slipped out, shifted to man-form, gathered the few things he had brought, and became wolf again.

There would be no sleep tonight. He loped off to the north.