Elan's usual warmth is subdued, tonight, as he appears out of, apparently, nowhere, to collect you. What you can see of his skin has patterns drawn on it, glyphs that you can't quite follow snaking around his arms and down into his shirt. He's relatively silent as he guides you to follow him into the Church's Umbra. Shadow Claws is in evidence, but mostly as a guard around the edges. Once there, Elan turns around to watch you. After a moment, he smiles. "OK, sista, this is it, here and now. You ready?"

Bernie glances about, running a hand through her curls somewhat nervously before squaring her shoulders and straightening a bit, nodding. "Yeah," she replies with as much confidence as she can muster, "think so." Her hands hook into her jacket pockets, as much to prevent them from fidgeting as anything else. "...what d'I need t' know, an' do?"

Elan says, "Look for a lady name of Juanita. Shadowclaws, he said she was havin' trouble, a week or so ago." He takes a moment to think, and then shrugs. "Anything else -- you have the smarts, you have the clues. Mama'll be with you, one way or another." From his pocket, he produces a stick of gum, and hands it to Bernie, pausing a moment to hold your eyes. "Eat. And then we will see where it is you go."

Bernie accepts the stick of gum with a slight smile, murmuring under her breath, "...how profound, Wizard..." and unwraps it, taking another look around, as if memorizing it just in case. Not that it'd be likely to do any good. "A'ight. Lookin' for Juanita... a'ight." She nods once, and pops the gum into her mouth, crumpled wrapper moving into her pocket as she chews it up.

The gum, rather than tasting minty or fruity, tastes somewhat sour. Elan, as he watches you chewing, brings a fairly large blue marble out of his pocket and begins a low, musical chant, tossing the marble from one hand to another. Maybe it's something in the gum, but it's soon incredibly hard to tear your attention from the marble. And the song. And the darkness that's slowly creeping into your vision. Pretty soon, it's hard to notice anything /but/ the marble. And it's getting blurrier by the minute.

Suitably mesmerized, Bernie just watches the marble and, out of the periphery of her vision, the blurring of all else, with fascination, and waits. There is the sudden half-panicked thought that she really ought to have asked how she was supposed to get =back=, but she tells herself that'll have been handled, and pushes it from her mind for the time being.

Somewhere in there, the blur of the marble moved from light to dark, and your whole field of vision was dominated by it. Elan's chanting has disappeared, cut off as if it had never been. It can't really be called unconsciousness, because there's still a slight tangy scent in the air, and a rustling, somewhere in the distance, but there was a brief moment of disconnection, disorienting. It seems rather more likely that some form of coherence was lost, in fact, since with the disappearance of the ball and the chanting, focus is gradually coming back, and it soon becomes evident that you're not standing anymore. Or at least, not on the legs you're used to... These seem shorter. And there are more of them. And you have a better sense of smell. And more fur. And whiskers. The darkness seems to be pressing against you, somehow.

Bernie blinks, nose wrinkling as she tries to look down at it, and steps tentatively from side to side on all her legs. She looks back over her shoulder to try and get a better look at herself, checking for a tail, and then back around at the darkness of her surroundings.

In some ways, darkness doesn't matter to rats. From the creak of halyards and knots, and the smell of pitch and sea air, it would appear you're on board a ship. From the wood you're pushed up against, it would appear you're in a cask that used to hold wheat. And there's quite a few other rats around, breathing and, in some cases, gnawing on wood.

Okay. Definite ratness. That's interesting. Bernie pads about the cask, looking for a crack to peer out of before searching out an exit. No good climbing out directly under the nose of a cat, or a sailor with a big ol' knife, or something. She tries sniffing out non-Rat beings as well, unsure what time does to scents as far as rat noses are concerned.

There are, actually, quite a few non-Rat beings about, but that hardly matters, since there's a flash of light, and you're in what is recognizably the Rialto, an empty Rialto, from a rat's-eye view. And then there's another flash, and you're in what would appear to be the White House, given as the office is oval, and everyone is dressed incredibly formally. You yourself are apparently quite handsomely ensconsed in a desk. The president's desk.

Bernie crouches comfortably in the nest within the desk, watching silently. A rat running out of the desk and scurrying about the feet of these well-dressed folks is definitely unlikely to go over well, so she spies instead, listening to the people around. The surrounding areas of the desk get a look too, just in case there's anything interesting to be seen.

It would seem to be the Clinton administration, still. Luckily, it's not after hours. After listening to some discussion on Iraq and no-fly zones, there's another flash, and you're in the middle of a roiling mass of rats, all streaming out of the sewers into daylight, frantic over... Just what, you can't tell. But there's a sour, sick smell in the air, and there's cobblestones underfoot.

At first, the stampede seems to narrow the options -- be carried along, or be trampled. Bernie joins the crowd, looking for a nook or cranny to dive into as they come into the light, where she could perhaps hide and wait to see what the threat is.

Given that none of the rats is exactly paying attention to where they're going just now, it's not actually that hard to get into a handy cranny, next to one of the many holes the rats are pouring out of. A couple of bruises here and there, no great sacrifice. The street you've arrived on is narrow, houses overhanging the sidewalks, trash and dirt all over the place. And dead bodies. Of humans, dogs, of rats -- of innumerable rats, some being carried along by the tide of rats fleeing the underside of town. It is, all in all, a fairly grim sight. And the smell isn't any better.

Bernie's nose wrinkles at the smell, whiskers lying back for a moment. She tries to catch a view of some of the corpses long enough to see if there are signs of what the cause is, of the trash to see if she can figure out where she might be.

If Bernie recognizes signs of Bubonic Plague, then she'd be able to figure out just how they died. And the trash is mostly organic; things people dropped, uncleaned bodily wastes, unused food. The entire picture -- dead humans, dead rats, various live humans draped across the streets in various stages of desperate repose -- would remind one of a scene out of Dante's Inferno, or perhaps Camus, except -- the rats. There are some dead ones, and there's that air of panic in the streets, but they're /alive/, and even as the cub watches, more and more of the rats are gaining control of themselves. Some nose their more panicked compatriots, one or two bite other, even more panicked rats, and some of the larger ones are already scavenging for food.

Yes, Bernie remembers this particular section of history -- fairly well, given the ickiness and impact of it. And the illustrations. So; Europe, then, and not recently. She stays in her hideyhole for the time being, since it seems a better place to figure out what needs doing than out randomly on the street, and dredges up all the details she can recall.

In the midst of death, the panicked rats slowly cease being panicked, and start living their lives again. There's another flash, after Bernie's watched for awhile, and she's... In the dark again, although this is not a darkness that's pressing on you, not a malevolent entity. There's the slight flicker of light that indicates candles, somewhere in the distance, but there's not enough light to determine just where you are. Though it's cold. It's also clear that you're back into your own body, although you feel like one giant bruise, just now.

Bernie stretches a little to get used to the aches, and pulls her jacket slightly more closed against the cold. Her eyes try to adjust to the darkness, to see by the terribly dim light of the distant candles, at least enough to make out the floor. No desire to trip over anything.

Handily, it also appears you're lying down. Whoever put you here, though they gave you blankets, also left all of your clothes on, apparently knowing the fact that it's somewhat chilly quite well. Bernie's rustling produces results fairly quickly -- a russet blond woman, about six feet tall, and relatively thin. Her clothing screams "Layers!" as she's wearing a jacket over a sweatshirt, under which can barely be seen a sweater, and a t-shirt. She's also wearing a skirt over sweatpants, and two pairs of socks. She looks as if she'd be wringing her hands, were it not for the candleabra she's holding. "Hello, hello," she says, her low alto just slightly nervous. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to wake up." The room, once given any illumination at all, proves to be a cave, carved out of fairly soft rock. You're in, obviously, a bed, which has wrought iron framing, and what would appear to be the oldest mattress in existence, underneath you. There's a small table next to the bed, a chest of drawers on one "wall" and a bookcase, filled with both leatherbound and paperbacks books, on another wall. The woman sets the candleabra onto the chest of drawers.

Bernie experiences a tinge of vertigo as the room readjusts itself in her point of view, and blinks at the woman who arrives, looking her over. Well, let's see. Thought she might wake up, she's bruised, she's been put to bed... probably perfectly in character to ask: "....hi. Um, thank you. Where am I?" Bernie puts a bit of effort into propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look around.

The woman's body language screams uncertainty. Hesitantly, she says, "You're -- Down below. It's -- hard to explain." Her voice suddenly firms. "You were in fairly bad shape when we found you. Do you have any specific pains? You'll want to tell me," she adds, encouragingly, with obvious expertise in dealing with the recalcitrant, "Because I can help you with more ease, that way."

Bernie considers the answer, mouth going on ahead without her as she assesses herself for injuries. "I'm guessin' my brothers don't count, yeah?" So far, it just feels like bruising. Check the limbs and digits for proper working order... "...so you jus'.... found me all beat up? Where'd y'find me?"

"Yes --" The woman hesitates again. "Gideon, he does not want specifics told. But -- outside the sewers. There were -- signs of a struggle." There's a brief pause, and the woman adds, "I am Katriona." Movements not at all nervous, for once, she leans over and feels your forehead. (Her hand is cool, comforting.) "You had something of a fever, before. It would seem to be gone now, from direct evidence."

Bernie nods a little. "Hi, Katriona," she replies, "...you c'n call me Bernie..." Her brow furrows again, "...so how long've I been sleepin', then? What's th' date now?" Another look around at the room, taking in the furnishings, and the woman's layers.

The furnishings are an odd mixture of incredibly old and in good shape, and new and falling apart. Katriona says, "A day and a night. You were beginning to worry me, although when we found you, apart from the beating, you seemed perfectly healthy. As to date--" She hesitates again. Apologetically, she continues, "I'm not actually -- Not sure of the date, according to the standard calendar. Father would have known, but he's -- gone."

Bernie runs a hand through her curls, finger-combing the inevitable bedhead out, though it's not a terribly intentional movement. "...well. I us'ly heal up pretty fast. So, thanks for takin' carea me, an' all." She pushes to sit up more, pulling herself crosslegged beneath the covers. "...so...who're Gideon, an' Father, an' all?"

Katriona pulls the only chair in the room -- one of the newer pieces of furniture -- over to the bed. In that low, fairly confident voice, she says, "Don't move too much," she cautions. "At least, not until you're sure you don't feel any sharp twinges in your chest area -- ribs might be broken, you see." There's a short pause while she bites her lip. "Father -- he was -- /is/ -- the person who made all this possible. Gideon, he took over, when Father fell -- ill." She starts wringing her hands, unconsciously. "We -- None of us can quite find out why."

Bernie checks her abdomen and lower chest gingerly with one hand, just to be safe. "Huh. What's wrong with him? I mean, what kina ill? An'... wha's th' all this that's possible, anyway? I mean, y'know. The bits y'c'n tell me, obviously."

Katriona says, flatly, "We don't know what's wrong with him. And Gideon, he is a doctor, and I am a nurse practicioner, or I was, up in the world." More emotion slowly creeps into her tone -- a mixture of desperation and frantic worry. "And there are others of us with medical training. And we have all looked at him, and we /can't/ /find/ /anything/ /wrong/." Again flatly, she says, "He merely does not wake." She is continuing to wring her hands, although in much less nervous fashion now. Angry, perhaps. Taking a breath, she reaches out with one hand, taking Bernie's wrist, evidently to feel her pulse, since she looks at her watch as she does it. After 30 or so seconds of this, she says, "Mmm. Better pulse, as well." She sounds far less passionate than just a moment ago, though the hesitation that appears when she speaks of anything non-medical is back in her speech. "This -- we are a -- I suppose you could call it a refuge. From the world. For those who -- find one necessary."

Bernie can't help but grin fleetingly as her pulse is taken. "Doc, will I r'cover enough t' play th' piano?" she asks in hopeful-patient tones. "...an'... how d'ya know 'f you need refuge? I mean, I guess aside from th' bein' beaten unconscious by unknown assailants option."

Katriona quirks a small, shy smile. "Only if you played it before." At Bernie's question, a shadow passes over her face. "Before -- Before, there was no definition. It was just clear. If something had happened, if your life had become something you could not live, there, you could come here, if you could find us. But Gideon --" She stops. As if telling a great secret, she says, quietly, "He does not trust."

"Damn, an' here I had visions of Carnegie Hall..." Bernie considers. "C'n see how, with a refuge an' all, y'wanna be careful. Y'know. But I guess he's kina..." she fails to come up with the word she really wants, and settles for, "mega-anal, huh? 'causea Father, or somethin' else happen?" she asks quietly, almost confidentially.

"I--" The woman hesitates. She rises from the chair, and looks out the "door", though she's obviously not seeing what's actually there. "Before Father -- before he left us. Gideon, he had been his right hand. And -- he was a person I trusted, then." There is faint wonder in her voice, there. This woman does not, evidently, trust many people. "But he -- he began, some time before Father left, Gideon, he began pushing security as a problem, began trying to make things more..." She searches for a word, and finally settles on, as if it were the least appetizing thing on earth, "Organized."

"...how so?" the girl inquires, still quietly curious, not wanting to jolt the woman into clamming up. She watches Katriona's movements, with a glance following hers to the door, and waits.

Katriona's attention eventually drifts back to Bernie. "Have you ever had to scrounge, for a living?"

"...well, act'ly, yeah," Bernie replies, adjusting her glasses. "That an'," a touch of Southern drawl enters her voice, "ah have always depended on th' kahndness of strangers..." It disappears again, "..well, not always, but it's a good quote, anyhow. How come?"

Katriona looks speculatively at Bernie, starting to wring her hands gently, again, and then seems to realize the teen was joking. Shaking her head minutely, she sits again. "Would you say it is an activity that can be organized? That can be /ordered/?"

Bernie considers this remarkably seriously before answering. "...well.... yes an' no. I mean, you c'n take who y'got, break 'em inta groups an' tell 'em which sectionsa town t' cover, give 'em all listsa what in partic'lar t' look for, an' 'course have 'em bring back anythin' else that seems useful... y'c'n keep tracka what tends t' be where, an' look there first when y'need it... y'c'n come up with plans t' get holda certain things y'need... but y'can't, like, be settin' ind'vidual quotas or somethin', I wouldn' think. Not 'less ev'ryone's hella good at it, an' even then that's kina silly. 's got luck involved, 'well as skill.."

Katriona looks faintly startled, but rallies well. She starts hesitantly, but much like speaking of medical matters, she begins to be less hesitant the longer she speaks on this topic, on the topic of this place she clearly loves. "Yes, but you see, this is a group of individualists, who have reason to -- to /need/ to be individualists. We are certainly dedicated to being a community, but -- but we are all of us, every one of us, wary for one reason or another. Father, he knew this. He felt it in his bones. He organized people into sections, he did make lists of things that were needed, but he did not /order/. Gideon, he made quotas. He --" She swallows, and stops.

"...orders?" Bernie finishes, head slightly cocked as she listens. "...what happens 'f y'don't make th' quota, then?"

Katriona's jaw sets, just slightly. A little flatly, she says, "It is not pleasant." Sitting, she murmurs, "But it is only recently, that he has -- done such things."

"Since Father fell ill?" Bernie asks, shifting her seat in the bed a bit, to lean against something. She reaches up to corral a curl behind her ear; as usual, it refuses to remain where place for more than a few moments.

Katriona, though she watches Bernie's reactions carefully, doesn't actually tell her to be careful, this time. "Since, yes. And he did not -- institute such things for some time after. It has been -- a slow process. A tiring process."

Bernie nods a little, noticing that the bruises still hurt a bit. That's nothing new, though; that can still be mostly ignored. "...don' think anythin's broken," she remarks, in response to the observation of her moves, "...so d'y'all argue 'bout th' new shit, or how come not otherwise? I mean, does it =work=, tryin' t' regiment it all like that?"

Katriona doesn't stop watching, but she nods to the assessment. She looks, for a moment, torn. "You -- I -- Are you planning on staying?"

"Well," Bernie replies, slowly, "I'm not 'zactly lookin' t' sign a lifelong contract sight unseen or anythin', nice 's y'are an' all... I got people out there somewhere I oughta be takin' carea. But on th' other hand, don' think I'm sprintin' outta here jus' yet, 'less you're kickin' me out. Maybe I c'n stay an' help y'out a li'l, like assa thank you, 'least? I mean, y'coulda left me out all unconscious an' who even knows what woulda happened then, y'know?"

This seems to close the woman, somehow. "I -- Loyalty." If this is an explanation, it is not a very good one, but it seems to be all Bernie's going to get. "I'll send someone with some soup, soon."

Bernie nods a little, anyway. "A'ight," she replies, studying the woman a moment. "I get loyalty. Jus' won'er..." She trails off, and shakes her head slightly. "Y'gonna be back later also?"

Katriona says, with a very slight smile, that has echoes of her nervousness in it, "I would not be a very good nurse if I did not come back, would I? Try to sleep. Or, perhaps, read, if you cannot sleep. But try not to move much, please?" That said, she rises to her feet and heads out the way she came -- though she leaves her candleabra there.

Bernie nods, and gives the room another look, as Katriona exits. She pushes up from the bed, and starts by giving the books in the shelf a once-over, partly from curiosity regarding them, and partly to wait until she's sure she at least isn't directly visible anymore. The books seem safe.

Bernie is not, in fact, directly visible, and there's no noises outside the "door". The books seem an odd mixture of Romantic and somewhat more modern poetry, along with bad science fiction novels. There's a sprinkling of "how to" texts on plumbing, cooking, and various other activities.

Bernie pulls a few of the books out, looking them over with some interest. Mmm. Books. She decides on the DIY plumbing manual -- hey, might be handy later -- and sets it down on the bed before she goes about inspecting the rest of the room like a nosy little parker. So many drawers that might have interesting things in them.

The chest of drawers mostly has clothing, very battered and functional, in it. There are a few less savory books stuck in among the underpants. By the look of things, Bernie is currently living in the bed of a lesbian who's into gay male porn. If, that is, whoever owns the clothing in the chest of drawers also uses the bed. There's nothing particularly useful otherwise, other than some functional rope underneath the bed, that was, from the evidence, last used to haul something up an incline that had a lot of chalk in it.

Bernie blushes quite pinkly at the discovery of the hidden books, but peeks at them anyway, still curious. It only makes her blush more. She moves as little as she can, and replaces things as close to how they were as she can manage before closing each drawer. She notes the rope thoughtfully, but leaves it alone for now. No idea of any good reason to cart it around, anyway. The room fairly thoroughly examined, she heads toward the door, and listens by it for a moment or three.

There's an occasional burst of conversation from somewhere, but there's nothing close by. Outside the "door" -- actually just a cloth hanging -- is, basically, a passageway, again carved from the rock.

Bernie pulls the cloth carefully aside, glancing along both sides of the passageway for signs of people, and other rooms. For one thing, she's been asleep a day or so, apparently, and if there's a plumbing guide, there may also be plumbing...

Actually, although there had been only the occasional clang on pipes, it seems clear that there are some. In fact, there are some running down the passageway, small ones. The louder snatches of conversation appear to be coming from the right; the light fades completely, over to the left.

Left, then. See what's hiding over there. Bernie pads lightly toward the less populated area -- not sneaking, exactly, but taking some care with how much noise she makes as she takes in her immediate surroundings.

It's fairly easy, in the dirt encrusted corridor, to be remarkably quiet. The pipes eventually lead to a bathroom, with the occasional spurt of banging on them. The toilet is crude, and barely flushes, but it does function. For some reason, whoever's done the plumbing hasn't hooked a sink up to the pipes. There are also several, rather smaller, bedrooms, with anything from large, ponderous beds to a mat on the floor, in them.

Bernie glances appraisingly at the rooms she passes until she finds the bathroom, and checks for toilet paper before making quick use of said facilities. Hey, can't be too careful. When she emerges again, she pauses, looking further down the hall to the left.

No toilet paper, though there's the remains of newspaper that serves as something /resembling/ toilet paper. Further down the hall, there's evidently a somewhat larger opening -- there's the flickering of light in there, but no voices, so far as can be told.

Well then. Bernie pads quietly down toward the opening, peeking in once she's close enough, to see what might be over there. Plumbing books can be read a little later.

It would seem to be a fairly large room -- from appearances, natural. It's got a fairly impressive bed, an actual armoir, a chest of drawers, and a desk. The light comes from several torches in the wall.

Bernie takes another fairly quick look around, intentionally trying to look lost rather than sneaky as she does so, checking for any signs of life nearby -- or back over by 'her' room, though it's likely hard to see there in the dark.

There don't appear to be any signs of life, in the dark. Nor are there noises, though on this dirt, it's sometimes hard to tell footsteps.

Well again. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, but he who hesitates is lost, and oh, fuck it. Never been an angel anyway. Bernie slips into the room, and takes a look at the desk, quickly. Desks always seem to have useful things on them in Agatha Christie novels, at least. And there's still this Juanita person somewhere, ostensibly. The cub shakes her head slightly and concentrates on being quick and quiet.

There are some notes on the desk, though they're mostly of the organizational variety -- "We need clothes. Go talk to the Salvation Army." The handwriting is a little shaky, a little... Off, somehow. There are several cubbyholes, one of which is firmly closed.

Closed things should be opened. Well, not always; bathroom cabinets full of marbles, for example... airlocks in a vacuum... but otherwise... Bernie gives the cubbyhole a gentle test, then keeps her fingers on it to make sure it doesn't do anything silly as she focuses on it and mentally informs it that it is her bitch and will happily open for her, dammit, because she says so.

The panel opens, hastily, almost as if it were feeling harried. There's some crumpled paper in there. Off in the distance, from the corridor you were just in, there's the scrape of metal on stone.

Bernie glances briefly toward the opening, considering as she palms the piece of paper and pushes it into the mini-pocket within her jeans pockets. Let's see. Being caught, bad. So: (a) hide under bed, (b) hide in armoire, (c) duck back into bathroom. That's easiest to explain... c it is. With a quick glance and pat of the inside of the cubbyhole to make sure she isn't missing anything (isn't there always a secret compartment in these things?), she softly pushes the cubbyhole closed again, and slips back out toward the bathroom.

There doesn't appear to be a secret compartment. The cubbyhole seems almost relieved as it's closed. Whoever's coming down the hall again scrapes against the wall; you, however, make it to the bathroom easily.

Ah, the bathroom, scene of much relief. Usually not quite this sort, but still. Bernie goes to the extent of quickly using the toilet again -- partly cover, partly nerves -- but doesn't flush immediately once she's done, taking a moment to sneak a peek at the crumpled paper by the candlelight, one ear on the corridor in case of commotion.

The paper is fairly hard to read, since it's ripped in places, and there's traces of blood, tears, and various other liquids on it. It says something, in among all the stains, about "Father... forced... Can't not... Sick... Damned -thing-..." It is the same handwriting as the notes on the desk, only even shakier, in less control. A man passes by, walking slowly, deliberately. He's fairly tall, and fairly bulky, but that's all that can be told, from this perspective. He does not look into the room, despite the light inside.

Bernie refolds it carefully, sliding it back into the mini-pocket, to look at again when she can study it a little closer. Back in 'her' room, perhaps. She waits a little longer to see if the man's coming back right away, then flushes, steps out, and pads back in the direction from which she originally came.

He's not, in fact, coming out, though once you're back to "your" room, there's a scraping again, against the walls.

Bernie sets the candleabra where it'll give good light, sits crosslegged on the bed, opens the DIY plumbing book to about a chapter in, and starts idly reading it, half her attention on the sounds and light-changes of the outer hall.

Both the sounds and the light come closer, until the man is, in fact, pushing through curtain and into the room. "I would knock," he says, in a low, melodious baritone voice, "But there is no wood to impact upon. My greetings. May I enter?"

Bernie glances at the page, noting the number out of habit, and flips it closed, looking up to greet the new arrival with a smiles. "Sure thing. Mi casa es su casa, or vice versa," she jokes, setting the book aside. "Hi."

Gideon remains silouetted against the door. It's a bit hard to see details about his face, or hands, or anything else. "I am Gideon. I am what passes for a leader, in this place, and I but wished to greet you. Have you fared well under Juanita's care?"

"I'm Bernie," the girl replies, and swings her legs off the side of the bed, standing and taking a step or two toward him to offer a hand. "Niceta meetcha. An' I'm farin' pretty well now, thanks. But I thought Katriona was takin' carea me?"

As you get closer, it's clear the clank was coming from the man's artificial -- and very old -- left arm. At the question, there's a flash of something -- anguish, anger, raw despair -- in his brown eyes, but it's gone very quickly. "Yes," he says, smoothly. "Katriona. Juanita was her name when she came here. Often, my people change their names. To indicate how they themselves have changed." His grip, when he takes her hand, is strong -- and clammy. For a brief moment after he takes Bernie's hand, his trembles -- but his face is clear, apparently unruffled.

Bernie shakes his hand politely, though she disengages from the clamminess fairly soon, and nods a bit at the reply. "Makes sense t'me. Gotta lotta friends've done that, diff'rent timesa their lives, an' all. So..." She pauses, "not t' pry, but what happened t' me, anyway? I mean, I kina take it someone beat me up, but I dunno who, or where I was, or anythin'...?" She tilts her head at him a little.

Gideon's hair is long and brown, well combed, down to the small of his back. "We are not sure. Occasionally, we find what you might call strays. We will not leave those in need to die, but if they--" He stops, and looks directly at the cub. He is, perhaps, blinking rather often. "That is, if you do not wish to stay, and become part of this place, we cannot tell you what little we do know, for you will have to leave once you are fully healed. It is for our own security."

Bernie's brow furrows slightly. "...Well, how do people even know 'f they wanna say they'll stay forever 'f they dunno what they're agreein' to?" she asks reasonably.

Gideon smiles, faintly. It looks as if it were once a thing natural to his face, but it is strained, now. "They know. If they need refuge, they will know. The others -- we do not need those who are not committed." He seems fairly confident on this point.

Bernie nods a little, thoughtfully. "Guess that makes some sense... d'ya let anyone help? I'd like t' help. Y'know, like t' thank y'all."

The man shakes his head, though what he's saying seems to be paining him in some way. It shows only in his eyes. "If you are not of us... Then you cannot stay."

"Well... why not?" Bernie asks, "...I c'n keep a secret, an' all. Scout's honour. An' I =would= like t' help an' stuff, repay y'all some."

Gideon closes his eyes. "Secrets," he almost whispers. "I tire of--" and breaks off, face suddenly twisting, for a brief instant. And then that tired smile, the one unfamiliar to his face now, rises again. "I appreciate the thought, young one, but what must be, must be."

Bernie watches him a few moments, and nods. "Que sera sera, huh?" she asks, "...an' y'know... when you're tireda things, sometimes it helps t' give 'em a break, yeah?" A very slight shrug there.

Gideon murmurs, "Break. Break? Who would take over? Father, he is -- He is --" The man stops. He seems about to say more, but then simply shakes his head.

"Is what?" the cub prompts, quietly.

Gideon shakes his head, mute. He clenches and unclenches his hand, very slowly.

"You're a c'mmunity, right?" Bernie comments, still quietly, "So you could prolly find people who'd be all willin' t' help ya. Re: takin' a break from secrets an' all, I mean." She watches him, noting the movement of the hand.

Gideon's clenching speeds, slightly. He seems to be struggling to speak, but nothing comes out.

Bernie notes the agitation, and continues as reassuringly and (yes) persusasively as she can, calling on what Yi had made her try to develop back at the Tin Yen, "...you c'n tell me, y'know. 's a'ight."

Gideon's artificial arm moves, slightly. Apparently involuntarily. In a fierce whisper, he growls, "I -- I /cannot/. It -- I have done-- I have been made to--" He breaks off, and stands, unmoving, except for his artificial arm, which is slowly rising upwards.

Bernie arches a brow at the arm's movement, reaching out to take hold of it by the wrist. At the same time, she decides the worst that's likely to come of the attempt is embarrassment, if it works but wasn't the problem, and hey, she's got plenty of practise with that emotion, and shoots a look at where it's attached, mentally ordering it, well, not to be.

The arm half detaches. There's enough room to tell with crystal clarity that something's not right, in that arm there. For one thing, most shoulder stubs don't have green tentacles sticking out of them. Nor do they normally assault the senses with an incredibly acrid, pungent odor. Clumsily, given Gideon's own resistence, the arm tries to wind up to bash at Bernie; given as she's holding it, the only thing that happens is some pressure against Bernie's hand. Gideon gasps, "Father... One... There--" and then just slumps. The tentacles, which turn out to be very long worms, instead, start squirming out of the man's stump. They seem fairly blind, just now, but they're orienting quickly on the cub. They're at about two feet long, and they're still not all out of him.

...okay, so maybe that =wasn't= the worst that could come of it. Ew. Bernie makes a truly disgusted face and pulls on the arm slightly as she drops it, making a spirited, heavy-booted stomp on as many of the suckers as she can get underfoot as they reach the ground. A quick look to the entryway, to be sure no one out there can see in, and another at the slumping man, and she begins to shift to a form suited to better attacks than just stomping. Oh, she hopes he's unconscious already...

Three. You get three of them with a quite firm stomp. Apparently, you got enough of them, as they squirm and then crunch not-so-quietly under your feet, screaming very quietly as they die. Two of those not gotten in the original sweep, still extending out of his arm, find parts of you -- that same leg as before, actually -- and, after briefly sliding along your rapidly changing skin. It's an incredibly odd sensation. They're soon done feeling around like blind men, though, and start boring in. For something that just squished so thoroughly, these are extremely hard beasties. And they /sting/. The last one has failed to find anything Bernie-esque, and is currently undulating on the ground, looking frustrated.

This is about where Bernie would normally scream something that would've gotten her a few afternoons detention in high school. However, since she's =trying= to be quiet, she freezes for a second, and what emerges through her very firmly clenched teeth then is a small squeak, comprised mostly of pitches only dogs can hear, as she stomps her foot down again, this time mainly as a replacement for the yell, though she does try to catch the remaining free one underfoot almost as an afterthought. The impact, whether she succeeds or not, distracts her somewhat from the initial pain by adding its own contribution. Perhaps not the =most= effective technique, but it does for the moment, as she finishes changing.

There's about 6 inches of green worm that's bored into your calf by now. If you were looking at the entry hole, it'd be clear that the skin and/or fur around it is turning black. A little bit of hair falls out. The remaining free one is, in fact, squished underfoot. Under your /bare/ foot. Little bits of still-alive worm writhe under there, and then go still. Little glubules of dead worm cling to your foot.

Luckily, it hurts too much right now to be suitably disgusted. Bernie makes a subconscious mental note to retch later, and stomp again now. Knowing how it feels could be considered a disincentive for that idea, but the pain gives her more than enough motivation to do it anyway. She puts her hand -- well, paw -- carefully flat atop the dresser for balance, lifts her un-eaten leg, and stomps down on the bodies of the remaining worms.

Given this incentive, the worms surge /through/ her calf, and out the other side. The result of the stomping, though, is an extraordinarily disgusting sound, quite a lot of worm mush, and two more dead worms. Though there's still parts of them stuck through the calf muscle. They're twitching, currently.

Reads-In-Dark reaches down before she can chicken out of it, and before the pain distracts her from doing it, and grabs the parts still protruding in an attempt to yank them out of her leg. The combination of the inevitable pain of that and the movement itself almost knocks her over, and another severely strangled yelp of agony squeaks through her tightly clenched teeth. Her eyes water a bit. If the worms all seem to be dead, though, she starts shifting down again, in case someone should come by soon. Plus, if she collapses on the bed in Crinos, she'll probably break it.

There are, in fact, enough of them that are still protruding to be /able/ to yank them out. It's not particularly fun, especially since there's now worm goop on your hands as well as your feet, but they're out. And quivering. But they soon stop, going quiescent. No one's coming by, but the bed thanks you for the thought. Gideon is still out cold, but given the lack of worms in his body, he's starting to stir again.

Bernie sits down heavily -- but less heavily than in Crinos -- on the edge of the bed. The worm goop gets unceremoniously wiped off on the bedspread before she takes a look at her leg. Fuck, that hurts. She doesn't dare poke at it. Her attention turns to Gideon then, as he begins to stir. "Hey," she manages fairly quietly, voice somewhat pained, "...y'a'ight, Gideon?"

Gideon stirs further. Suddenly gaining consciousness again in the blink of an eye, he /hurls/ his false arm away from himself, and curls up around himself, sobbing soundlessly into his remaining arm.

Bernie winces, and not just from the pain in her leg. She takes a deep breath and pushes herself standing again, =strongly= favouring the uninjured leg. Very carefully, she picks her way across the mushed worms, avoiding them as best she can as she limps, and around behind Gideon. Pressing a hand to the dresser to help, she lowers herself down to sit there, and puts a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. "Got rida 'em, pretty sure," she murmurs reassuringly, "'s a'ight..."

There's a brief commotion, somewhere in the distance. "He -- what?!" Gideon continues sobbing, though he leans into her slightly. After someone else screams, Gideon hunches up further -- until he catches sight of the man who's pushing through the tarp. Tall and clearly once burly, with a salt and pepper beard, he just screams quiet authority, despite his emaciation. Gideon goes through a whole body flinch, recoiling backwards into Bernie.

And another wince from the girl, though this one because her wounded leg is now partly under the man. She takes in the cause of Gideon's flinch, and does a little mental math. Two plus two plus two equals... "Father, I presume?" she asks as calmly as she can, though there's still the pained edge to it. "Hi. I'm Bernie." She doesn't offer a hand, since they're busy being comforting, and it'd be hard to shake from down there anyway.

The man searches out Bernie's eyes. "Yes." In the next moment, she could be somewhere else completely, as he looks at Gideon. Despite what the other man seems to be expecting, there is no blame in Father's eyes. Crouching next to the man, he lays a hand on his shoulder. Softly, compassion in his voice, he murmurs, "I felt it too, Gideon. The compulsion. The control. The... Horror, in the night." In a voice that is, while quiet, as strong and as sure as the loudest politician's, he goes on, "I cannot blame you. But you will blame yourself. So I forgive you, on your behalf, since you will never be able to forgive yourself." Gideon lurches from Bernie into the other man's arms, and everything goes utterly black.

Bernie doesn't fight the darkness. She just waits for the light to dawn again...

The first sensation that comes to light, actually, is whiskers on your forehead. The light comes only slowly, probably because the Umbra at this time of the month is really quite dim. But you're at the Church, that's quite certain. And there's a big huge rat right next to you. Shadowclaws grunts. *Bout time,* he growls, and stalks away. None of that movement obscures the fact that he's incredibly glad to finally have you awake again.

Bernie awakens slowly, brow furrowing at the feeling of whiskers, but grows a somewhat relieved smile as things not only come into focus but look suitably familiar. "Hi, Shadowclaws," she greets the spirit, voice slightly scratchy as she comes back to normal, "...I'll make a note t' try t' be quicker in future..."

Shadowclaws snorts. It sounds a bit like a sneeze. *You do that. So I don't have to pace for two days.*

Bernie blinks again, trying to push up onto her elbows. "Two days? Man, where'd =that= go? Weird. I thought it was only, like, few hours...." She pauses, considering, "...though, I guess Katriona =did= say I was sleepin' for like a day anna half 'fore I woke up... huh." She pushes the rests of the way to sitting, and takes a good look at her leg, pulling the cuff of her jeans up to her knee to do so. A handy feature of baggy pants, sometimes.

Shadowclaws pokes his muzzle into the bloody mess that is currently Bernie's calf. It actually rather tickles. *That's gonna leave a mark,* he concludes. Tilting his head to look at her, he asks, *So'd you kick ass?*

Bernie squeaks a little at the ticklish sensation, and nods a bit -- agreement that it'll leave a mark, not to the latter question. That gets a fleeting moment of consideration before she replies, with a quick grin, "Well, I stomped worms..."

The rat's ears swivel. *Joy. That is not exactly my favorite activity in the world.*

"On th' whole I'd rather be in Philadelphia," Bernie replies, by way of agreement, but grins again. "Worked, though. Stomped all those suckers flat. No more Evil Wyrmy Mind-Controlly Tyrant Arm. Or whatever that thing was, close 'nough I think."

Shadowclaws grunts again. *Mind control is a bad idea,* he says, as if he's tried it before.

"I'm against it," Bernie agrees with slightly exaggerated solemnity, and does her best to stand up. She flinches a bit at the pain in her leg, but makes it, stretching a bit, and looking around. "So... now what d'I do? Go home an' sleep?"

The rat agrees, *Sleep. And tie one on later, to celebrate. And hunt Shadow Eyes down and getcher butt cliathed.*

Bernie giggles, grinning rather proudly, and tosses off a light salute to the rat. "Gotcha," she replies, "Will do. On all counts. Thanks for watchin' over me here, an' all..." That said, she prepares to slip back to the other side, and comply.

The grumpiness Shadow Claws exudes as a regular thing is completely absent as he mutters, probably too low for Bernie to hear, *My pleasure, kid.*