Thinking about stuff first.

[flint_garou]

What news.
2 April, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (73% full).

Flint has settled on one of the couches in the lobby, with a laptop set up on the table, atop a static mat, and some various tools around him. But right now, the laptop's powered up and running, and Flint taps at it occasionally, as well as sometimes glancing at the monitor for the security system, which has been conveniently rotated so that the young Galliard can keep an eye on it.

Having been absent from the Tenement for over a week, Whisper steps up to the front door. She can be seen fiddling with her keys, then unlocking and letting herself in. "Hey," she greets the other Galliard politely.

Flint looks up a moment, then grins at the Uktena, though there's a fair amount of overall tension in Flint's posture that just doesn't ease. "Hiya, Whisper-rhya," he calls out. "There's. Some coffee still left in the coffeepot in the laundry room, I think?" After tapping at the keyboard a few times more, the teen pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, promptly lighting one.

With the moon being as it is, it's not surprising that there's tension in both of them. Still, politeness saves the day. "Alright, thank you," Whisper nods, going to fix herself a mug. "How're you doing, Flint?"

Flint pulls a knee up to his chest and then sets the pack of cigarettes, and lighter, on the table. "Been worse. Been better?" This seems to be the best answer that the boy can come up with, though, and it comes after a long amount of thought.

"Any news to be spread around?" Whisper prompts as she comes back up with a mug of sludge, finding some wall to lean on near the Walker.

"Someone's been. Stepping out of the Umbra, straight into the homes of human families, and murdering them," Flint says, an evident note of distaste in his voice as he shares this. "Riley-rhya says, she thinks it might be a Red Talon, and. The body count's rising. Val brought it to. To our attention."

The metis frowns faintly. "Murdering them how?" she asks quietly. "What's the usual cause of death?" She sips from her hot brew, oblivious to the scalding temperature.

Flint pulls a long drag from the cigarette, glances at the laptop, then snaps it shut. "With a knife from the kitchen. Also, Val said…" Flint trails off, fingers tapping on his knee as he recalls, and there's the ever so slight change in tone of repeating what someone else said. "'The killings are being done by a human. Wolf has a red stripe across her chest. In human form, she looks like a wild-haired girl, with dead eyes, bare feet, and simple clothes.'" Pause, and Flint glances at Whisper. "So."

"I don't think a Talon would use a knife," Whisper offers quietly. "A red stripe means nothing. There's plenty of reasons a Garou might kill humans, without tribal prejudice."

Flint nods. "I didn't think so either. Or that. Why would a Talon bother, to take human form when killing humans? It. Makes no sense, but. Just, passing along what Riley said. Also that. Riley thinks, it's too calculated to be Dancers."

"Dancers are capable of calculation. They're not all insane," Whisper replies levelly. "Unbalanced certainly, but they're capable of planning and executing." She rubs a hand over her cheek. "Okay. Well, it's good to know what we know."

Another nod. "It'd be. A good thing to, for someone to go. I don't know. 'Talk' to any've the Talons, around these parts, anyway. At least rule out if. Anyone matches the description." There's a fair amount of a dubious tone that creeps into Flint's voice, and he pauses for a moment, letting his breathing steady and tension easing from his shoulders. "And, whatever—whoever it is. One or two families a week's not good. And. Needs to get stopped."

"Yeah." Whisper voices her agreement quietly. "Okay. What else has been happening in the last week and a half? I've been across the country."

Flint leans back into the couch a bit. "Not so much, else," he says. "Devon'n I fought. Then settled things properly and adult-like instead of. Throwing things at each other, when we're both rage-y." This is all stated pretty quietly, with an accompanying shrug, though there's a hint of tension creeping back into his posture. "And, Alexandra and I are talking about packing."

"Packing is good," Whisper nods, not commenting on the first part. "Who are you thinking of packing under? And who else with?"

Flint reaches over to the table and reclaims his cup of coffee that'd been abandoned, though it's probably cold by now. "We. We're still not sure, who else with. Maybe Izzy, or Ky, or both, once they get t' make their own decisions. And. We're less sure about under who, Wisdom maybe, War maybe, maybe just have an idea and hope the right spirit finds us when we go looking. It's a pretty frequent topic of discussion."

"It's an option, though more dangerous than knowing what you want. Maybe you should think about what you want to achieve as a pack before deciding on a patron spirit," Whisper suggests.

Flint nods a few times. "That. That makes sense," the young Galliard says, quietly, fingers tapping out silent pattern on the side of the coffee cup. "Yeah. Lex and I are talking about it, a lot. There's a lot to figure out."

The Uktena nods. "I'm here if you want advice, or you can do it alone and see how that goes," she voices neutrally. "It's good to pack, though."

Flint grins, ever so slightly. "Thanks, Whisper-rhya," he says, eventually flicking the last few ashes from the cigarette into the ashtray, and half-curling into the corner of the couch. "Yeah. Maybe, could you tell me 'bout packs you've been in, and such?" There's a half-tilt of the boy's head in curiosity, intent listening after he's asked.

"I've actually only been in one pack before," Whisper acknowleges. "We were a group of four, prowling the mountain ranges of Idaho clearing them of hillbilly cults and banes and the like. We packed under the Umbral Wind, keeping the passes he loved to roar through clear of the wyrm."

Flint listens, quiet, and nods when Whisper's spoken. "Sounds like it was neat," the boy says, and it's a genuine statement. "Yeah. I guess, figuring out what we want to. To accomplish, will help us… get closer to figuring out who we'd like to pack under?" It's a half thought, and Flint pulls out another cigarette from the pack, before then tilting the pack towards the other Galliard with silent question.

There's a nod from Whisper. "No point packing under Osprey if you're looking to do lots of stuff in the city. Rat or Cockroach or similar would be better. Likewise, no point packing under Cockroach if you're doing more in the country."

Flint nods. "Yeah. That's another thing that. We're not entirely sure, also, until we know who else we're going to be packing with, partially? I mean, the two of us both lean towards, towards City and such moreso than out in the country, though I like the country, it's just not." Flint grins, a bit. "Not home, or anything. But, it does all depend on who else we find, and how what they want meshes with, with what we want."

The metis mm's quietly. "It'll work out. Sometimes you pick the pack to target the goal, sometimes you pick the goal to satisfy the pack. The totem comes after either," she notes. "Still. You'll enjoy the experience—or you should if it's done right, anyhow."

Flint grins, not bothering to hide the occasional thought process that shows on his face as he considers the Uktena's words. "Yeah. I mean. I want to pack, it. The idea feels right, and my. The kinda half-remembered instinct that, from my ancestors… I want to pack, to have that."

"Humans and wolves are both pack animals," Whisper agrees. "It makes sense that Garou are too. Especially in a world like this, where having someone at your back is the difference between life and death every day."

Flint nods, quiet for a long moment. "Yeah," he agrees, pulling out his cell phone to flip it open, and send off a text message. "Speaking of." A longer moment is spent pushing out a text message on the nine little number buttons, and then Flint puts the phone back away, with a half-laugh. "Need a better phone one've these days."

"I'm sure one of your Tribemates can hook you up with one," Whisper observes. "If not them, then who? You're all about cutting-edge gadgety stuff, I thought."

Flint grins. "Yeah, I've just been busy," Flint states, a wave of his hand that it's not that important at the moment. "I'll bother once. Once I've gotten the project done, that. Comes first."

The metis nods. Then, digs out her cellphone—an old iPhone 3GS—and offers it over. "You can have this one if you like. I don't use any of the fancy bits—I just need a phone that can talk and text."

Flint seems, really, a little surprised. "Really, you. You don't have to, Whisper-rhya," he states, as if to make certain that the offer's real, and then just nods. "This," and he points to the flip phone he has, a bit. "It's talk and text capable, and." He peers at the two phones a minute. "I know how to switch the numbers on them so. It won't be a hassle."

Whisper rolls one shoulder in a shrug, before digging a slim hairpin out of her bangs, and using that to get the sim card out. "You'll need to grab the charger for me. I'll bring the wire for this one along on my next visit," she offers mildly. "This was a parting gift from someone at Two Stumps; I honestly don't use it."

Flint nods, pulling the battery back off his phone in a fairly practised motion in order to get the sim card from his out, and smiles. "Thanks," he adds. "I. I'm pretty sure we've got a few chargers for these around here, and." Then, the teen half-stands—on the couch—pulling out the simple black charger from one pocket of his sweatshirt. "And it's got a memory card in there, for photos." All in all, it's not a bad little samsung prepaid-style phone that Flint's got, just about five years out of date and simple in functionality to begin with, but well cared for.

"Photos." Whisper sounds amused. "Sure." She inserts her sim into Flint's phone, then asides, "Take good care of it. No throwing it, sitting on it, dropping it in the toilet, or whatever. It's old but good." She powers up 'her' phone and begins to fiddle with it, exploring the commands.

Flint takes a little bit more fiddling to get his sim card into the 'new' phone, and there's an immediate grin. "'Course," Flint acknowledges, looking down at his lap for a moment as he presses the power button, gaze flickering to the screen as he watches it boot up, and a quick tapping in of some PIN number from the SIM card prompt, fingers nearly flying over the screen. A few moments later, he looks up. "Seriously, thank you Whisper-rhya. I. I 'preciate it." And then his attention does go back to the phone, opening up a few of the applications experimentally.

Aside from a few silly app games like Words with Friends, Whisper doesn't seem to have anything on there—no photos, for example. "Show appreciation by taking care of it," the metis repeats with a wry smile.

Flint nods—and it's evident by the care with which the teen treats the phone already, as he taps out another text, and the laptop on the table, that he will.