Ivan Press

[Cordelia] She hadn't done a particularly good job of saying where she was, but eventually, Cordelia gave Ivan cross streets and, eventually, came the exasperated Seven eleven! Find that!

Cordelia spends her time, right now, in the bathroom. She's washing her hands- an exercise in futility because this is a seven eleven we're talking about. There's not going to be a lot of real cleanliness that can be exercised because everything is a germy mess. The store is fun by a man who sports a mullet and is named Chet. He knocks on the door with his meaty, grease stained knuckles.

"'ey, Princess, you okay in there? Y'been in there for fifteen minutes!"
"I'mokay!" she replies, and it comes out as all one word. Cordelia continues washing her hands, up to the elbows, past and rubbing off whatever unseen dirt and grime and blood she had there.
"Sweety, you gotta come out sometime."
"No, I'm okay!"
Chet just sighs.

Cordelia wanders out about two minutes after that. Her hands are raw. Her arms are raw. Chet just looks at her and leans over the counter. He hands her a Zinger- which, unbeknownst to the Silver Fang kinswoman, is like crack with raspberry coconut shavings on it.

"Y'look like y'need one."
"Thank you... I'm going home now," she tells him.
Chet just shakes his head and sighs. The Silver Fang leaves the Seven Eleven with Hostess product in hand. She sits on the curb, with her knees closer to her body and unwrapping the pastry carefully. She pushes her glasses up. Attire is comfortable, but not weather appropriate. Denim skirt, tee shirt, and ballet flats. The shoes are are wet, so when she walks they make a squelching noise.

She takes a bite of mutant twinkie and waits.

Chet, inside, goes to clean up the bathroom.

[Ivan Press] When Cordelia texts, sounding -- if one could sound anything at all in text -- frantic and disoriented, Ivan is actually feeling rather bored. Fortunate for her, because otherwise he would've ignored the missive entirely. Even so, he makes it a point to sound as irritable and disrupted as possible when he calls her back. Wouldn't want her to make a habit of casting him as the white knight, after all. Impatient and brusque, he raps off a few questions: where is she? How'd she get there? Well, she must remember something. Fine, stay put; he'll come get her, because obviously (the word is a study in droll sarcasm) there's nothing better he could possibly be doing with his time right now.

Maybe twenty, thirty minutes after that, a rather unmistakable vehicle pulls up on the curb. It's the Murcielago tonight. He's thinking of trading up for a Reventon, though bloody Lamborghini cut off production at 20 cars on that model, so he'd have to buy it secondhand off of some rich oil baron somewhere. God, he did hate secondhand things.

That's what Ivan's mulling over when the Murcielago rolls to a stop at the curb. The passenger-side door opens -- winging upward, of course, this being a Lamborghini and all -- and Ivan calls to the kin on the curb:

"Well, come on then, get in. I don't have all night."

[Cordelia] She lucks out. Ivan was bored. And Cordelia has a horrible habit of mass texting panic. He responded faster than Katherine, though she does check her phone. Obsessively. Every two minutes. It's methodical. In fact, Ivan is pulling up while she's checking her text messages again.

"Te debo grande para esto," she says while she's getting up and all but running for the car. Cordelia gets in, looks at her wet shoes, and takes them off before she gets in the car.

The female throws them, and finishes getting into the car.

"I owe you big, thank you thank you thank you."

[Ivan Press] "I don't speak Spanish," Ivan reminds her, so offhandedly it's almost sing-song. They pull away from the curb even as she's pulling the door down and closed. It's heavy, but there's a smooth slide to it, as though hydraulics drove the mechanism.

Torque pushes her back in her seat. He whips around one-eighty and goes back the way he came, heading -- presumably -- for the Brotherhood. Or maybe his place.

"I should charge for being your knight in shining horsepower," he mulls. "Can't have people talking about what a nice, magnanimous guy I am, after all. What were you doing here, anyway?"

[Cordelia] [This is the "Make a coherent sentence" roll!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Cordelia] "Okay," she starts. She inhales, then exhales again. The blonde nods, and reaches for the non-existent oh shit bar that should be on the right side. Her legs pull up, and she might just put her feet on the dashboard to keep herself anchored into the seat, but she doesn't.

Instead, they hit a comfortable speed of ridiculously-fucking-fast and she puts her legs back down.

"Okay," she asserts again, "I got lost? And went to church to call a cab. And- uh..."

This is the point where she tries to come up with something. She makes a half uncomfortable sound, folds her hands in front of her, to keep from fidgeting.

"Fomor."

Like that would make everything make sense as to what happened.

[Ivan Press] "Fomori?"

He flashes her a split-instant glance, startled, that wouldn't be so dangerous if he wasn't going ridiculously-fucking-fast. But he is. Cordelia might be testing her seatbelt surreptitiously now. "And you're alive?"

Gee, thanks, Ivan.

[Cordelia] Fomori?
He flashes her a split-instant glance, and she looks at him-
"Ivan, road," she insists. Not so much insists as reminds him that ohjesusthat'sapothole.

He continues on, and she is testing that her seatbelt works properly. He says something about being alive and some of the color drains from her face. Brows raise and she pushes her glasses back up. "Christian and Night's Reprieve came. They said run, so I ran."

Night's Reprieve isn't the easiest name for her to say, and something is getting lost in translation because she keeps fidgeting and stopping and starting and her sentence structure has been boiled down to simplistic-at-best.

[Ivan Press] "Hmm," Ivan says. "And they haven't come for you since?"

[Cordelia] "Hmmn-mmmn."

[Ivan Press] "Well," Ivan says cheerfully, "they either don't care or they're dead."

And in the next breath, "Now, do you want me to drop you off at the BroHo, or what?"

[Cordelia] "Ugh," she says. There's nothing to really say about that, "can you take me to my apartment?"

[Ivan Press] "That depends," Ivan replies, "on where it is, what's in it for me, and whether or not I get a please and thank you."

[Cordelia] "Lakeview, tequila and indian takeout, and please take me home, Ivan, I promise I will owe you a favor if you take me home."

She looks at him, and looks at him over the top of her glasses. Her lower lip sticks out a little- it's classic pouting position. This is also the expression that people adopt when they want something desperately.

"What do you offer the man who has everything?"

[Ivan Press] The look Ivan shoots Cordelia then is deadpan laced with smirky. It says, really? you want to just walk into that one?

When he opens his mouth, though, it's not road head or blowjob or sex that comes out of it. It's actually a rather thoughtful "Hmm," followed by a few more seconds of silence.

"Why don't you," then, "tell our dear mutual friend the Fang Elder -- because you will be reporting this little incident to her -- what a wonderful, helpful friend I was tonight, coming to pick your ass up from big bad Bronzeville and all. You know. Kiss up for me a bit.

"Then we'll call it even."

[Cordelia] She isn't exactly good at feigning innocence. She tries, sometimes. And, for the most part, it's not an act, but there are times that she knows exactly what she's saying. He doesn't go for the obvious sexual-favors-in-the-car, but rather, goes for something that's infinitely more useful.

"It wouldn't be kissing up," she says, "she got the same text message you did."

A moment passes, they'll call it even.

"I'll make it sound pretty. I'll even leave out the siiiiiiighiiiiiiiiing, and keep it low key. I wouldn't want people thinking you make a habit out of this."

[Ivan Press] "Excellent! That's what we'll do, then."

He's made his way to the freeway. He floors the accelerator with utterly zero fear, zero restraint. Cops probably couldn't catch him if they tried, and if they did, well, then it'd be time for a phone call to Lane again. After he's sliced his way to the innermost lane and settled into a good clip -- a hundred, a hundred ten miles an hour -- he finally gets it in his head to glance Cordelia-ward.

"So I suppose I should ask," he says, "are you all right?"

[Cordelia] He supposes he should ask if she's okay, and she doesn't answer. The female looks... uncomfortable is the closest approximation of her expression. Of her posture, the way her shoulders aren't back and her head's not as high up as she normally holds herself.

"How do you deal with that sound?"

[Ivan Press] "What sound?" -- Ivan, puzzled.

[Cordelia] "War," she says, "it's wet... things tear, and break. And scream and growl."

There's something n the way she says these things. She says the word wet like it was slimy, falling off of something. And there it is, the description of battle. From a listener's standpoint, that's what it is. Enemies drown in things intangible concepts, choke on their own tongues.

Gaians shift, their bones crack and reknit faster than humanly possible. Muscles tear and build back stronger. Enemies lash out with claws and swollen tongues and that is battle. A series of disgusting, disturbing sounds.

"And then it's quiet," she says that like it's the worst thing in the world. Silence.

[Ivan Press] The sound Ivan makes is perhaps best classed as amusement, though it's a thin version of that. "I get used to it," he says. "I don't really think about it anymore. But if by you[i] you actually meant [i]I, then my advice to you is this: don't get used to it. Take it as one more reason to do exactly what you did tonight. Run.

"How did you run into a fomor, anyway?"

[Cordelia] "I was waiting for a cab, and I didn't want to wait outside so I went to a church instead. What could happen at a church, right?"

She lets out a half laugh, which really is the kind of high-pitched eh-hehehehe-. It's not a real laugh. It's not even close. She sighs.

"I was being stupid. That's how," she tells him, "the church felt wrong and I stayed anyway and I got lucky."

[Ivan Press] "A structure built in the honor of a deity responsible for plagues of locusts, rivers of blood, world-drowning floods, and making angels that trumpet down the stars. Not to mention, demanding a father kill his only son and inciting entire nations to war with one another. Oh, no. Nothing could ever happen in a church, Cordelia.

"Lucky for you," never one to miss up on an opportunity to rub someone's nose in it a little more, "Christian and Night's Reprieve happened along -- or were summoned, much as I was -- and dispatched the fomori. Or died."

Ivan sighs, about as dramatic and possibly even more feigned than the sigh he gave when she called for a pickup was. "Oh, damn it. I feel it again. That nagging, pesky rise of my sense-of-duty. I suppose after I drop you off at home I should go and see if the church is cleared out and safe now. Or at least if there's anything of Christian and Night's Reprieve to clean up."

[Cordelia] [this is my willpower, it is mighty. Look at it!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Cordelia] "Will you stop it? They're not dead," she snaps. It's much more immediate than she realizes, and much faster than she realized she'd said it. The female purses her lips, and looks out the window instead of at him. She crosses her arms across her midsection and watches as things pass by too quickly.

That pouting, irritable moment passes and she looks at him from the passenger seat.

"Call me after you finish, okay? And tell me if anything happened," this is when she adopts a cheeky grin, "if you die and they died, I'll be out of friends."

[Ivan Press] "You don't know that," Ivan points out instantly. "For all you know, they died to save you. Two brave warriors of Gaia, because your curious-george self couldn't resist investigating unwholesome noises."

-- and she's suddenly turning to him with a cheeky grin, brushing that lapse into a sort of desperate irritability right under the rug. Ivan gives her another slicing, piercing stare, then shakes his head.

"So enlighten me, Cordelia. Was that little manic act supposed to fool me into thinking you're not rattled? Or are you finally displaying your Mark of Good Breeding, such as it is?"

[Cordelia] [per+empathy- what are you thinking, mister man?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 4, 5, 7 (Failure at target 6)

[Cordelia] [you're allowed to fail, it's okay! WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Ivan Press] [since kai'll see it on my log anyway, i'ma just include her in the PM! So, 5 succ nets you:

Ivan's pretty annoyed that Cordelia has spent this entire time either breezing about and almost-flirting with him, or mildly distraught and focused on her own personal trauma. He's pretty sharply aware that most Garou who come rushing to save a kin from fomori will then come see if she's all right. Those who don't come after the kin have a high chance of being injured or dead. He thinks Cordelia isn't nearly as aware of that as she should be. Earlier he might've chalked some of that up to shock; by now he thinks she doesn't really care about the Garou that saved her, period.

He pities Christian a bit. He knows Christian's quite into Cordelia; he doesn't think Cordelia returns the sentiment. Not that he really thinks Cordelia should be swooning over Christian, or that anyone should swoon over anyone else, but he still feels sorry for Christian. And last but not least, Ivan is indignant at being yoinked out of his home to play chauffeur for a kinswoman.

For all these reasons, he's deliberately coming down harder on Cordelia and pointing out all the weaknesses in her current stance/mentality/whatever.]
to Cordelia, vikthya

[vikthya] [PFFT. LIKE I READ YOUR LOG.]
to Cordelia, Ivan Press

[Cordelia] "... Hilary was right, I really am a parasite."

She doesn't reply for a long time. She is looking at him, and looks back down again, "I.. it's... they could be dead right now. I don't even know Night's Reprieve, and he was willing to protect me. And... and Christian loves me, and-and-and-"

She exhales. She closes her eyes, tightly.

"I don't want them to be dead. If I'm flippant and calm and business as usual-and-then nothing happened. Nothing happened. They could be dead, and for what? And he loves me and I love him and he could be dead right now and he told me to go and what if there was more out there? I heard him, he growled and something hurt him. And then he was breathing shallow and then he was fine and he told me to close my eyes and run and I'm not doing this again."

She keeps her arms folded close to her body. Her eyes stay closed.

[Ivan Press] There's a long silence after that. When Ivan speaks again, Cordelia could be justified in thinking him cold, or cruel, or simply devoid of all empathy and mercy:

"Now, are you saying that because you're genuinely remorseful? Or because you think that's what I want to hear? Because sometimes I wonder, Cordelia. I wonder if you aren't so much Batman and Bruce Wayne as you are ... well. Whatever someone else wants you to be."

They're leaving the freeway. Not far from her place now.

[Cordelia] "Are you asking that because you want to know or are you asking it because you already know the answer?"

They're leaving the freeway. She opened her eyes long enough to start counting stoplights. She won't look at him.

[Ivan Press] "Maybe a little of both," he admits.

[Cordelia] "You ask that like it's a small question. Why do you care?"

[Ivan Press] "Do you need me to care before you'll tell me? Is that what this is about?"

[Cordelia] "No, I don't need you to care. And I don't want you to."

[Ivan Press] Ivan's eyebrow cocks up at that. "So much for 'I want us to be friends'," he remarks -- and then he's pulling up in front of Cordelia's apartment. Her posh, swanky place that befits her status as the scion of her clan, paid for by the old, old money of her house; this place that she rarely stays in because, as she told him once, she gets lonely here.

"Well, here you are," he says. "Now then, I'll wish you a good night and be on my way."

[Cordelia] She purses her lips and finally looks at him. Her stomach turns, and she looks at her apartment instead. It's a nice building. It's a damned nice building, as a matter of fact. She's looking at it like it's an enemy, though. Like it's done some personal offense to her. Something softens, and her eyebrows lift.

"I'm sorry, Ivan," it sounds like regret.

[Ivan Press] He shakes his head at that. "It's an answer I want," he says, "not an apology."

He doesn't leave room for an answer, though. Before she can speak, he nods at the car door. His tone is light and noncommittal, cool: "You do know how to open that door, yes?"

[Cordelia] "I'm well-versed in opening doors," she tells him. He doesn't leave room to answer and, in turn, she doesn't bother.

Cordelia gets out of the car, and enters her apartment building barefoot.