The old church is dark, dimly lit by outside light coming in through scum-encrusted windows during the day, and tomblike during the night. There is a coatroom in the back of the nave, with separate doors leading off to mens' and womens' restrooms, and two staircases, one going up to the balcony and bell-tower, and the other leading down to the basement. The double doors leading out to the street are at the back of the coatroom.
The hard wooden pews in the sanctuary are, for the most part, still intact. There are even Bibles and hymnals left in the shelves along the back of each row, although many of them look rather chewed on. The altar on a dais at the front of the church is empty, and the lectern that once stood next to it has been knocked over. Rotting red cloth hangs at the very front of the church; there might once have been a design on it, but it has long since faded or been eaten away.
Signe gestures at the box when she gets closer. "What's in that? Crayons?"
Rotem shakes his head. "No, it's my Stuff. Wanna see?"
Little Tim enters the church just like he enters everywhere, spewing smoke like a riverfront factory. Squinting into the darkness of the sanctuary, he pauses a moment before venturing forward, toward the pews. As he proceeds, he knocks his brown-paper-bag-wrapped bottle against each one.
Signe shrugs. Whether it's an answer to Rotem or simply the Get's way to adjust the leather jacket she wears is hard to tell.
The doors open again shortly after they've closed, and Bernie slips in; though she's fairly close behind Tim, she doesn't seem to have actually arrived -with- him. Closing the door behind her again, she scans the room, eyes adjusting to the new light level.
Rotem gives a glance to Tim, shakes his head, and then turns the box towards Signe, he opens it and offers it to her. "My Stuff." He lifts the box a little more. Inside is a pile of knives, various kinds, switchblades, butterfly knives, a straight edged razor. Also inside is a glass prism, some bottlecaps, and a small metal disc.
"The /fuck/ is goin' on at church tonight?" Tim calls ahead of him voice bleary, eyes still not quite picking up the distinctions of the people ahead of him. "Any singin'? Baptizin'? Revelatin'?" As he nears Signe and Rotem, the smell of booze rolls off him in waves - those that know the Gnawer No-Moon will not be alarmed by this, as it's almost as common as the cloud of smoke.
Signe looks up at the clinking, noticing Tim's approach. she gives the other Gnawer a quick nod and turns back to the box. The knives get her attention, and she looks them over with a keen, expert eye, appraising them. "Yeah, Gnawer Stuff," she comments, and it's unclear if it's a compliment or an insult. Still, she picks up one of the better knives to study it further.
Bernie grins a bit, recognizing Tim's voice... not to mention the particular combination of vice odors. "You missed N'vada comin' back with a kickass story, earlier," she remarks, wandering further into the room. "Heya, Timinator," she adds, glances to the Get, "Signe," and to the other cub, a distinct lack of enthusiasm entering her tone as she adds, "...kid." She glances up to the rafters, then, for some reason, squinting up into the eaves.
Rotem glances at Tim while Signe looks at the knife. "You're smashed." He states simply, although it sounds like an insult, He looks to Bernie and smiles. "Hey sis. You're up late, aintcha?"
Signe doesn't seem put off by Tim's attitude or odor, and in fact, as he approaches, she calls out, "Looks like I missed the party." Her eyes remain on the knife, but the words were for Tim.
"An' you got yourself a flair for the obvious, kiddo," Tim replies, smirking wickedly. Squinting, he peers down at the cub's hands, arms, the words slowly coalescing into sense. "You that cub," he says, the lightbulb flickering on. Nodding, he adds, "All that daily affirmation shit, Chicken Soup for the Idiot's Soul on the arms - Max an' Bern told me 'bout you. I'm Tim, Tooth-Breaker to, you know, family. The fuck're you?"
Rotem motions to Bernie, and looks to Signe. "She's pissed at me because I d-dont like drug addicts." He shakes his head slightly, then looks to Tim, "M'Name is Rotem, Greenstreak to Gaia's Chosen. Warrior moon. And You already know my tribe." He motions to the bottle. "What you running from?"
At the Gnawer cub's last question, aimed at Tim, Signe draws her eyes away from the knife, finally. An eyebrow rises in pure curiousity as she looks for Tim's answer to this, and a thin smile actually creases her natural scowl. The knife gets tossed back in the box uncerimoniously.
"Mmmhmm," Bernie agrees absently to the other cub, still scanning upward. "Couldn't sleep. Came back. What th' hell," she explains, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Yi still 'round, or she go off somewhere?" At his other comment, she looks back down at him, eyes flashing in the darkness. "I'm pissed at you for lotsa reasons, an' not likin' drug addicts ain't, as such, onea 'em."
Rotem closes the box and places it under the pew. He looks to Bernie. "Why, then, are you pissed at me?" He seems to have forgotten about Tim at the moment, Bernie's words surprising him.
Little Tim finally gives Signe a look, a nod in greeting, a little thumbs up - almost like a theatrical aside, before he replies to Rotem. "Y' know, the usual shit - fucked up family, livin' on the streets, havin' to deal with stupid cubs... Pick one, kiddo." He holds the bottle up, as if in toast, then slugs another drink, his cigarette still hanging from his lips. Though his eyes are red and bleary, the scent is the only other indicator of his inebriation. After the cub's question of Bernie, he adds, "I got money on 'Because you don't know yo' asshole from yo' elbow'. What 'bout you?" He looks to Signe.
Signe answers, "Mine's on 'Ignorant and proud of it'."
Rotem shakes his head. "Not anymore. I learned my lesson from Kaz-Rhya. I got lots to learn, and I know it."
Bernie smirks over at Tim briefly, as she takes up a perch on a handy pew, and nods slightly to Signe, "Yeah, not knowin' your burro from a burrow's a decent short answer. How 'bout another? You hear butcha don't listen, y'c'n repeat what people say, butcha mostly don't seem t' learn it. You want th' long answer, though? Chapter an' verse? It might take a while." She's reasonably calm and matter-of-fact in this reply.
Rotem waves his hand and leans back in the pew. "Might as well. Only way I'll learn what I'm d-doing wrong. Go ahead."
Little Tim blinks, drinks, flicks some ash toward Rotem. With a questioning look toward Signe, he tells the cub, "Good start, chief. This'll help ease the, y' know, transition from dumb-fuck to slightly less dumb-fuck." The bag-wrapped bottle is held out to the cub, and Tim nods for the cub to take, to drink.
Signe's smile twists up a little at Bernie's answer, and her nod shows she thinks there's merit in it. To Rotem, she adds, "She's got a point, I bet. You know what'll get you out of this hole, and you'll say it to get what you want. But that's different from learning. But it's a start."
Rotem looks to Tim and shakes his head. "I've never drank." He mumbles. "I d-don't need posion. Got enough problems as is."
"Well, I think you should d-d-d-drink it anyway," Tim reiterates, smirking again. "Call it a lesson in obedience to your elders."
Signe decides to takea seat and watch this, vaguely amused. She steps up on the pew Rotem's sitting on, steps over to the seat behind him where Bernie's currently perched, and settles against the back of it to watch.
Rotem snatches the bottle from Tim's hands with a slight growl. "Fine." He says, bringing the bottle to his lips and tossing it up, gulping down two swallows before sputtering up some of the god awful liquid and spilling some on his shirt. He hands the bottle back to Tim "What t-the fuck is that god a-awful stuff?"
Little Tim blows a small cloud of smoke in Rotem's face as he retrieves the bottle. He eyes it dubiously, then hands it back. "'S just a little somethin'-somethin'. Go ahead and finish it, cowboy," he says, then looks toward Bernie and her impending explanation for Rotem.
Rotem rolls his eyes, and does as told. He takes several more pulls from the bag and then places the container down on the pew. "E-enough?" He asks, looking to Tim.
Signe grows a little bored with the lesson and pulls out her own knife, for show and tell, since Rotem was so generous earlier. Sitting behind him, he doesn't see it yet, but she starts to carve out a little glyph on the back of the pew in front of her. The knife is at least eight inches of wickedly curved double blade and would easily set someone back a few bills.
Little Tim lets his smirk darken a bit, and he asks, slowly, "Is it finished? If not, keep goin'." With a tired shake of his shaved head, he says, eloquently, "/Shit/."
Bernie nods slightly, shifting into a more comfortable position in her pew, and regards Rotem. "A'ight," she begins, "first off, yeah, you're improvin' lately. That's good. 'specially 'f you gotta point of view where you wanna be stayin' alive much longer, 'cause I dunno 'f you got any idea jus' how close you got t' bein' fertilizer. That said, lessee." She turns one hand over in her lap, ticking things off on her fingers. "So. Attackin' various of yer elders, t' start with, jus' 'cause you think you so big an' bad an' gotta be given your way; 'least Yi nearly killin' you an' Kaz hamstringin' you seems to've fixed that up some..." She eyes him thoughtfully. "D'you even realise how close t' dead you really were, then? I mean, really? You're alive for one reason, an' only one, an' that's that I got Adam t' notice you were unconscious an' bleedin' t' death and weren't gonna be able t' heal 'less he used that gift on you. D'you -get- that? She killed you, basic'ly. I wanna make sure you got that clear. She woulda made it, I think, though yeah, you messed her up a lot. But she killed you." A pause, not long enough for a reply, just emphasis. "So. T'move on. Y'got a smart mouth, an' that's comin' from a ragabash. Sometimes, you're funny. But you're -not- a raggie, you're a 'roun. An' best I c'n tell, th' diff'rence there is, -we- know when t' smart off an' when t' shut up. You keep actin', though I guess you're gettin' better, like you -deserve- t' be treated like an equal by th' others. An' you -don't-. You're not an equal. You're a cub. You get treated like an equal, tha's a -privilege-, an' you -earn- it. Y' don't get t' demand it. I seem t' recall tellin' ya that part once b'fore, but you were in too mucha a hurry t' go out an' getcherself throated. You're bigoted 'gainst th' people we're s'posta protect, th' ones no one else'll look out for. An' yeah, you gotta tough background there, but oh fuckin' well. You gotta look past th' prejudice an' find out -why- things are th' way they are, t' unnerstand 'em better, an' you -oughta- wanna unnerstand 'em better. AND," she looks even harder at him, "Kaz an' Yi both work real hard t' pound all this shit inta your head, an' you disrespect 'em, an' I don't -like- that. Maybe Kaz doesn't care 'f you refer t' her as a Mule, but it pisses -me- off. For example. I'm prolly forgettin' somea th' shit you piss me off with, but I figure that oughta hold us for th' moment, 'least."
Rotem blinks, but doesn't reply. Slightly dazed from the drink. "I.. I.. I.." He repeates several more times, before moving on, "I learned my lesson. And I d-d-d-don't care about the d-druggies. Too b-b-bad." He shakes his head. "I d-d-d-don't /have/ to care."
Signe, having heard something about druggies twice now, pipes up as she draws another line with the knife, "What's all this about druggies, anyway? What druggies?"
Rotem motions to his arm. "The fa-folk who ca-can't keep the n-needle out of their arm."
Little Tim blinks slowly a few times, taken aback, maybe, though that would be a new reaction from him. "Uh, shit-for-brains, that's what bein' a Gnawer /is/, yo. Takin' care of them that can't do it themselves - for whatever reason." He swings a flat look toward Bernie, then back to Rotem. "'F you can't get that through that hubcap of a noggin, we may as well cut you loose right now." He draws his thumb across his neck, and makes a soft *zip* sound.
Rotem lifts his head slightly. "Fine. I'm not helping no druggie. Not after /Her/. They can all kill themselves w-w-without my help."
Signe looks at rotem, her impatient nature showing in the darkness of her eyes and the return of her scowl. "I know what a fucking druggie /is/, I want to know what prompted the discussion of them in the first place. -- Ie: Who the fuck is 'her'?"
"The point, fuckhead, is to help 'em NOT kill 'emselves. You already volunteered for th' helpin' -to- kill 'em, as I recall," Bernie replies, disgusted. She looks to Signe, "His mom was a crack whore, he says. An' 'causea that, he got born with some problems, an' got 'bandoned. An' therefore, she's evil, 'cause obviously she -wanted- t' be addicted t' crack an' sellin' her body, an' she did it jus' t' spite him, an' every single onea 'em out there's jus' th' same way, too." You could cut the sarcasm with a knife. And hey, look, there's one handy.
Rotem growls slightly then shakes his head, arms crossing over one another. "Whatever. You'd be just jim dandy wouldn't you to know your parts are only good for another thirty years."
Little Tim eyes the box, having spotted the knives earlier. Rotem then gets a long, slow dip in Tim's blank perusal, his expression oozing rapidly fleeing patience. "Fuckin' /pansy/-ass piece of yellow street-trash," he says to the cub, rising now, as if he were going to do what he'd insinuated a moment ago. "Bern's just tellin' me my own god-damn life story, an' I gots to sit here an' listen to you whine 'n cry 'bout how you can't do this, an' won't do that, on account of /that/? I ain't nothin' but a stupid asshole, son, but even I c'n deal with my moms bein' like that. /C'mon/."
Rotem looks at Tim and rolls his eyes. "If I'm gonna end up like /you/ then please. Throat me now." He growls slightly. "Lush."
Bernie looks at Rotem a few moments, silently. Eventually, she speaks, quite seriously, and not particularly confrontationally, this time. "We're Garou," she says softly. "Look around. How many of us do you see who are 30 years older'n you an' me? 'f you get t' die from th' problems you got born with... you'll be lucky..." As the cub comments to Tim, she slips back slightly and adds, "...-really- lucky."
Signe, after rotem's last word, quickly puts he knife away. It's as if the Get knows something, and her entire mood changes, stiffens, comes alert, muscles flexing almost hungrily.
Little Tim is done with the cracks and comments. Instead, he simply takes a step forward, grinds his cigarette out in his left palm, and unleashes a blindingly fast punch at Rotem's jaw. As he does so, he begins to slide upward into the half-man form. He's taking the cub's suggestion to heart, it seems.
Rotem falls back into the pew from the punch, then setting his jaw returns to sitting there. "Go ahead, if it will m-make you feel better." He looks to Tim, arms still crossed. Apparently, for once, not putting up a fight.
Bernie slips her backpack off, setting it behind her on the pew, and tenses slightly as she watches. Other than that, she doesn't do anything but shake her head a little.
Little Tim goes ahead, indeed. Another punch, this time from a much larger, harder, stronger fist, then another. They come in a rush, naturally quick, but now fueled by his rising Rage, bam-bam-bam. If he feels better, it isn't clear; he's silent, an efficient machine.
Rotem gets beaten by one punch after another, spitting up blood now, still not making any motion to move. He caughs up a tooth as well.
Signe watches with cold but passionate appreciation of the ragabash's speed. n fact, the ahroun mutters an admiring word, her form tensing eagerly at the display of combat.
Bernie bites her lower lip lightly, watching, and wincing a little for the other's cub's sake. She's met those fists before. They're not soft and fluffy.
This time the tooth ain't Tim's own - maybe this is what makes him sneer ferally, or maybe it's the perception of weakness, or maybe just the lack of patience for the kid's attitude. More punches, more wet-meat sounds, blood spraying a bit now, the sneer widening with apparent pleasure. Finally, a pause, and he growls, "C'mon," one brick of a fist poised again.
Signe watches the cub not fight back, disappointment in her eyes--but probably not for the reason Rotem might think. Grimacing, she gets up, pulling tim away. "awright, hang on." There's nothing in her movement that suggests Tim was in the wrong, but apparently she wants to talk to the cub.
Rotem slowly moves his hand to touch his swollen face. He looks to Signe. "C-can I shift to heal?" He asks, as if seeking permission.
Bernie, perhaps demonstrating part of her earlier auspice comparison, says absolutely nothing in this lull. Not yet, anyway.
Signe's shoulders are straight and one of her hands is curled into a fist as she looks down at the cub. The question makes her smirk with distaste again, and instead of answering, she says, "You know what I hate most about punks like you? You're all mouth and no fucking balls. You insulted my man here, and then refused to follow through and defend your words. Instead, you sit there and play the maryred fucking puppy, getting beaten up by big bad bullies. Fucking stand /up/, pussy." this last is a command, not necessarily a simple addendum to his not defending himself.
Rotem shifts up to glabro as he rises up, standing in front of Signe. His voice dropping an octive or two as he does so "I'd fight him, if I didn't know that if I won I'd still end up getting hamstringed by Kaz." He crosses his arms, "Or you."
Little Tim stands off, Signe's presence deflecting his fire, his anger at this stupid cub. With an audible /grunt/, he spits at the cub, the heavy wad of saliva hitting near his feet. Otherwise, though, he lets Signe intervene unimpeded.
Little Tim spits again. "If you won," he growls disdainfully.
-NOW- Bernie speaks up. "I'm gonna say this once more, an' maybe it'll get pounded through your head, finally. You didn't win, b'fore. You. Did. Not. Win. You were hamstringed for bein' a stupid insubordinate shithead. It had nothin' t' do with winnin' or losin'. And. You. LOST."
Signe remains in homid, looking up to the now larger cub with an air of casual detachment and fearlessness that some might find insulting. Before she answers, she waves a hand for Bernie to be quiet, and it's clear she wants everyone to shut up for the moment. Eyeing Rotem the whole time, she finally answers, to what he said, "That's a fucking excuse. I said I'd teach you, so I'm gonna teach you lesson number three, right now. When you /say/ something, back it up, or don't say it."
Rotem tilts his head, looking down at Signe. "I'd still get punished for it." he motions to Tim. "Even if I did fight back."
Little Tim shakes his head again, a snarl peeling across his face. "What're you doin', Signe?" he rumbles. "He ain't worth /nothin'/. Let's just break him down."
Signe's anger flashes in her eyes and puts a growl in her words, "Then fucking keep your mouth /shut/ little ape. Do you understand me? Now either apologize to Tim, or fucking /fight/ him. You have my permission. These are lessons. And ahrouns fucking fight."
Bernie crosses her arms on the back of the pew, and just watches, silent again. A lesson's a lesson, even indirectly.
Rotem grins visibly seeing as he has Signe's permission. "Fine." He states, and looks to Tim. "Bring it on." He steps out from the pew and into the isle. "Lets rumble."
Little Tim already has a fist readied, and he brings that blinding quickness to bear again - in one fluid motion he's stepped forward and bring a thick fist down on Rotem's already crunchy face. There's no waiting for 'Go', no agreement... just action: Tim's specialty.
Signe immediately gets out of the way, but she doesn't go far. She's turned into a referee it seems.
Bernie's eyes remain on the combatants, and she mutters something, very softly, obviously to herself, and not the room at large. Anyone just close enough might be able to make out, "....almost wish I had some popcorn."
Rotem stumbles back a step from the punch, then lifts his left leg to kick at Little Tim's family jewels. He locks his leg as Junior had shown him while kicking.
Little Tim knows that move, as Bernie can attest, and seems to have read Rotem's mind. One heavy hand is already swatting the kick away, and it lands relatively harmlessly on Tim's hip, not his package. With a growl that sounds more wolf than man, he slings another combination of punches, three jabs at the head, one feint, and the real hum-dinger in the midsection. Being standing against Rotem gives him an advantage, and he presses this.
Rotem falls to the floor and scampers back, deciding against fighting head on, it worked with Yi. He moves towards the back of the church, where he has a little more room, and looks towards Tim.
Little Tim doesn't advance just yet, but rather lets the cub fall back and watches, hands on hips, head pitched to the side slightly, patient as can be. Feigned, most likely.
Rotem turns and moves down the steps, towards the basement, disappearing behind the door.
Little Tim looks down at his boots, sighs, disappointment plain in the set of his shoulders. "Fuckin' stupid hubcap," he spits, turning to look at Signe. "C'n I just kill him in his sleep without you sayin' nothin'?"
Signe shrugs at Tim, "Ain't my fucking problem," she says disinterestedly. "He's yours. I was just helping out Kaz."
Signe catches at the Gnawer's sleeve, though, and adds, "You're pretty fucking quick."
Rotem emerges from downstairs, now carrying what appears to be a broken piece of a chair in his right hand, and a metal liner, also from a chair, in his left.
Little Tim smirks at Signe, though it slips into an appreciative grin for a moment there. An honest bit of feeling from Timmy? Wow. "Thanks," he growls, but Rotem's reappearance draws his attention. When he spots the kid with the weaponry, he shakes his head again and reaches for the box the cub left lying nearby. He grabs the biggest knife, hefts it, then tosses it aside - too small for his half-man hands. Instead, he gestures for the cub to bring it on.
Bernie gets a truly wicked ragabash expression for a moment, eyeing Rotem, but seems to decide against whatever crossed her mind. She shifts position in her pew, to see better, and puts her feet up on the back of the pew in front of her, ankles crossed. Then she pulls her backpack into her lap a moment, and rummages in it, reclosing it and setting it aside after pulling something out. The something gets carefully pulled open, with a crinkling of plastic; it seems to be a bag of shelled sunflower seeds. Not popcorn, but close enough...
Rotem approaches, slowly. He moves to just within range then quickly brings the sharp end of the broken wood to jamb towards Tim's ribcage, expecting it to be deflected he brings the metal rod in a sweeping motion towards Tim's head.
Signe waits to see what Timmy does, but her expression shows extreme displeasure right now, and her arms fold across her chest.
Little Tim is /fast/, but not quite fast enough to sail through the Rage-aided attack. He does swat the wood, the flat of his hand hitting Rotem's hand hard enough to jar the grip loose. And while he sees the second attack coming from a mile away, he's just not quick enough to defend against the rod. It hits his head with a resonant clank, and the Ragabash rolls away from the attack, his quickness getting him to his feet in a smooth motion. Blood runs over his left ear now.
Rotem brings the metal rod swinging at Tim's side, and aiming a punch for his chest, hoping to knock the wind out of him, a deep growl coming from his lips. Fueled by his anger towards his mother, not Tim. He growls out loudly. "You whore!"
Little Tim barks a bit of laughter, at the slur, but he's more prepared for the two-attack strategy this time. His quickness and experience allow him to make a grab for the metal rod as he sidesteps, the punch glancing off his ribs. He tries to wrestle the impromptu weapon away while he gauges the cub's next move.
Rotem, now having closed on Tim, releases the pipe and grabs a hold of Tim, pulling him towards his now raising knee. Attempting to knee him in the abdomen.
As the cub reaches for Tim, trying to pull him close, the Ragabash seems to disappear in a flurry of shifting and movement. In a blink, he's no longer even vaguely human, his massive Crinos shape now towering over Rotem. Before that same blink can even end, his huge claws are into Rotem's relatively soft belly, churning, trying to disembowel the cub. Rage speeds his attack, and allows him to press even harder than normal to block his attacks... Tooth-Breaker's speed is just too much the cub's now.
Bernie winces a bit, pausing between nibbles of sunflower seeds. "...damn," she murmurs, "...this rate, he's goin' for th' record, most disembowelments suffered by a single cub..."
Rotem gurgles out. "Not again." As he looks down at the claw now in his gut, he shifts as well, his arms wrapping about Tim's to prevent him from pulling it out. "Stop. Please." He mumbles.
Tooth-Breaker lets his claw rip around in Rotem's belly for a moment, the torn stomach, the trailing intestines, the blood all mixing like chum during a shark attack. The Ragabash's off hand closes into a first and, probably mercifully, hammers home on Rotem's skull, most likely knocking him unconscious.
Rotem's grasp on Tim's hand releases as he falls limp, unconscious now.
Signe shakes her head briefly, thoughtfully. "Hrm."
Tooth-Breaker lets the cub fall, his own hand slipping out of the mess of his gut with a wet suction sound. He leans forward on all fours to sniff the cub, lips peeling back in a snarl, and then he slips back to his birth form. "Stupid /fuck/," he mutters, giving himself and his blood soaked clothing a quick scan for injuries.
Rotem shifts back to his birthform, seeing as he's unconscious.
Bernie nods slightly, and tilts the open bag in the vague direction of both 'rou still standing. "Sunflower seed?" she offers.
Little Tim holds out his blood-wet arms, sleeves sticking to him, and shakes them, patters of blood springing away from him. "Hey, yeah, sure," he says, cranking his head to one side to crack his neck loudly. "Thanks, kid." It's almost as if there weren't a bloody mess of a boy on the floor.
Signe shakes her head, but thanks Bernie just the same. She asks, "You'll see that Shadow Eyes and Kaz know it was a lesson?"
"Tell 'em to take it up with me, they got a problem," Tim says through some sunflower seeds, crunching pleasantly. "But I ain't even touchin' him. Y'all know where to find me." With that, he begins peeling off his bloodied clothes, eventually stripping down to underwear and boots before shifting into his canine form.
Bernie nods. "Will indeed," she replies, holding the bag out toward Tim and tilting it a bit, ready to pour some out into his hand. She glances over to the other cub, and shakes her head again, then looks to Tim, "...so sometime, I c'n practise with you 'gain, right?" A quick grin, and she rolls the bag back up, to put the remainder away.
Signe turns to Tim, before he goes, and calls, "Hey. come see me at the brownstone, some time. I might have some work for you."
Little Tim barks, affirming Bernie's request, tail zipping into a bit of movement. The Get gets a bark, Sure thing, and then the mutt's on his way out.
Bernie slides the snack back into her bag, zips it up, and stretches a bit, feet dropping down from their resting place to the floor. She stands, and eyes Rotem's body with some distaste; whether it's the blood or the cub himself is hard to say. "...s'pose I oughta not leave him lyin' in th' middlea th' room," she decides, and starts to slips her jacket off.
Signe looks at Rotem, too, but only briefly. "Probably not a bad idea. He's still bleeding, and now that he's in his homid again, he ain't healing any. You might want to wake him up and get him to shift again." With that advice, she too heads for the door.
Bernie nods, wandering over to him. "Yeah, I guess..." She waves to the Get, with a rather friendly, "night," and then shakes her head, standing over the cub, and evidentally restrains herself from giving him a good kick to the ribs. It's just not right to kick a guy when he's down. Well, unconscious-down, anyway. No matter how much of a fuckhead he is. Instead, she starts to shift up to a form that can cart him, and hefts him none too gently onto her shoulder, heading with him toward the basement stairs.
[...so Bernie took him downstairs and made him wake up and shift one way or another before going home. Kicking, if necessary; quite possibly dumping cold water on him. Whatever works...]