Calden White
Griff's, it's called, and it's the sort
of place you frankly wouldn't take your out-of-town friends on their
first visit to Denver. Not unless they were really into the
hole-in-the-wall, old-school-diner scene, or unless you didn't really
want them to come back. Tiny, trashy, and looking suspiciously fast
food-y from the outside, Griff's is perched on the south end of
downtown, right on Broadway where it's been since bell bottoms and
flowers in your hair were in.
The dining room is miniscule.
There's a counter for regulars to grab a seat and watch the kitchen
staff fry, grill, and fry some more. The rest of the seating is mostly
booths with cracked vinyl seats and slightly sticky linoleum-topped
tables; a few smaller tables with freestanding chairs. And the patio,
of course, with its rain-stained umbrellas and Costco-food-court-style
tables.
This. This is the place Calden picks out. This is the
place that he, by all accounts a thoughtful and well-educated man who's
turned his family's ancestral cattle run into a modern all-organic
grass-fed fully-finishing ranch business, considers an appropriate site
for a first meeting with a fellow kin of the Nation. A fellow
well-established, deep-roots-in-the-area kin at that.
It better have damn good burgers.
--
When
Lola pulls up, Calden's truck is already there. A late-model Silverado
with all the bells and whistles, only the heavy-duty tow rig and the
double axle in the back suggests that it is, in fact, a working ranch
vehicle. The man himself is nowhere to be seen, which probably means
he's already inside. And indeed, if Lola goes in and asks at the
counter, she'll be nodded toward the back.
Calden, then:
mid-thirties, unshaven, with thick dark hair in need of a trim that
trends toward auburn when the light hits it right. Wide and solid
across the shoulders, brawny, earthy, big hands roughened by work. He's
wearing a red-checked shirt. Jeans. Cowboy boots. There's a
beer in front of him, which he's only sipped at. And he's sitting with
his back to the door, presumably to give her the honor of sitting in the
better-defended spot.
Chivalry amongst the Nation. It's a different breed entirely.
Lola Hawkes
The
vehicle that pulls up beside Calden's Silverado is similar only in that
it's a truck with a bed. That's where the the similarities end. The
truck that rumbles into the parking spot beside this spruced up working
vehicle is a big old metal deathtrap. It's a pick-up that was made
sometime in the early eighties, and its white paint is faded and dull,
flaked off in areas and replaced with rust. The suspension squeaks, the
frame rocks when you take a corner or a bump, and the gas milage is
awful. But the truck runs, and it does a damn fine job of hauling the
remains of fallen foes for proper disposal at the end of the day.
If
there's any judgment to be passed on the establishment that Calden
provided her with the name and address of over the phone earlier in the
day, it's silent and buried where no one can see. When Lola walks in
and glances about, she's more concerned with the smell of the place than
the look of it. It smelled like fryer grease and mucky sanitizing
solution, but she was okay with that. The counter is ignored, as are
the people at it. Calden wasn't difficult to pick out from the other
sparse in-and-out denizens of the dinner, so Lola approached the booth
he'd set up shop in without asking for directions.
"Hey," is a greeting that meets his ear before she comes into his line of sight, some couple of feet behind his shoulder.
The
woman he'll turn around to find is young, quite a bit so more than
him. Somewhere in her early twenties, like so many still-alive Warriors
tended to be. She was some mix of Native and Hispanic, for her
features were strong and her dark eyes were set under heavily expressive
eyebrows. She had long, dense black hair that was tied back in a
simple ponytail at the nape of her neck, and no trace of make-up on her
face or polish on her nails. She dressed plainly, in jeans and a
comfortable gray pull-over sweatshirt.
More importantly than her
face and clothes, though, was her posture and how her body moved. The
woman stood strong and proud, with her chin rarely dipping and her
shoulders never slumped. She seemed to be forever defying something--
time, nature, birth right. Though of average height, it was easy to
forget that she wasn't actually six and a half feet tall after she left
the room-- that's the kind of impression she made.
When Calden
looks back, regardless of if he stands to greet her or not, Lola Hawkes
will stick a hand out for him to shake. Though she's unsmiling for the
moment, she seems sincere when she says: "Lola Hawkes. It's a god damn
pleasure to meet you."
Calden White
Calden is familiar with people like Lola. Calden and his family: they are
people like Lola. Folks who prize open land and cattle and crop more
than any million-dollar mansion; a firm handshake and good strong eye
contact more than any amount of asskissing; the fruits of hard labor
more than any unearned gift or charity.
Which isn't to say he
isn't a gentleman. Because he is, and perhaps more so than most men
walking the streets these days. See: he still gets up when a lady comes
into his presence. "Miss Hawkes," he says, and that's a miss and not a miz, "it's good to finally meet you."
When
she's seated herself, he slides back in across from her. They sit a
little offset: more room for both their legs. He slides one of the
menus over to her. It's a laminated placard, the lamination clouded
with use and time, and it looks like someone might've printed it off
their home printer.
"I'd recommend the triple-giant cheeseburger
meal," he says, straight-faced but for the faintest twitch at the corner
of his mouth. "If you're going to clog your arteries, you might as
well go whole hog. Sorry this isn't exactly a gourmet meal, but I
promise you the beef here is great. One of my good friends in the
business supplies this restaurant."
Lola Hawkes
Naturally,
raised in a rural setting by a family with ranching values, Calden was a
gentleman. He stood up for the lady that he was meeting for the first
time, even if she had a reputation of being the farthest cry from a
damsel that you could summon to mind. When they shake hands, her grasp is strong, and she does keep eye contact through the exchange.
The
hooded sweatshirt stays on when she sits in the booth across from
Calden, but spaced enough to make room for both sets of legs
comfortably. She does push the sleeves of that sweater up her forearms,
though, and accepts the plastic single-sheet menu that he provides for
her. She glances down at the options, but has her attention pulled away
from considering the options when Calden recommends one for her. The
triple-giant cheeseburger.
For a moment Lola's jaw tightens and
the corners of her mouth pinch up in something akin to distaste at the
idea, and she shakes her head and looks back down to the menu. "Doesn't
quite suit my tastes right now-- burger sounds rough." She glanced
briefly down at the limited menu again. "Probably gonna go with the
chicken instead." Something about how she stated that almost dared him
to call her a pussy for going with white meat instead of red.
He
probably doesn't, though, and he won't get too much opportunity for it
because she's looking past him, over at the counter where two regulars
are sitting chatting with one of the wait staff. "They do local meat
here, though? Good on 'em. That'll make all the difference. Might
have to swing by for a burger when I'm more in the mood for it next time
I'm out here on patrol."
She doesn't make small talk very well,
he can pick this up from her right out the gate. Lola is a direct
person, blunt, straight to the point. She'd sought him out to discuss
something in particular, no doubt, or at least she did so with some end
goal in mind. Watching her body language and listening to her tone of
speech, she doesn't seem the type to reach out and make friends just for
the sake of it.
But, because she did have some kind of end goal in mind, no doubt, she still made an effort at socializing properly anyways.
Calden White
Well; he doesn't call her a pussy. But he does smirk outright.
"I'm
sorry," all over-sincere apology, this, "here I thought with your
reputation and your family's, you'd be wolfing down the red meat at
every possibility. I'll be sure to suggest an all-vegan falafel place
next time to better suit your tastes." The smirk relaxes into a smile,
then. "I'm teasing," he adds warmly. "Order whatever you like. I
won't judge. Much."
He turns, then, raising a hand to signal a
waitress on the far side of the little diner. As she starts heading
over -- taking her time to pour coffee for one of the regulars -- Calden
turns back to Lola.
"Patrol?" He's openly curious.
Lola Hawkes
"I
said I'd be back for the burger," Lola told him when he teased about
suggesting a vegan place instead. There was a bit of a fire in her
voice, a defensiveness there when she'd insisted that she wasn't afraid
of red meat, that she was planning her return to consume a burger, if
only just to prove her point by now. When she'd met what she apparently
perceived as a challenge on her willingness to eat like the Wolves do
she'd looked up at him quickly, gaze even.
But he expresses that
he was teasing, and his tone is warm and the smirk on his face is
teasing but friendly. A second ticks by on some cloud-faced clock on
the wall and in that span of time Lola seems to realize how she'd come
across, that her hackles had gone up for no reason, and so she clears
her throat and looks apologetic but doesn't communicate this vocally.
The poor dear. She's just so bad at making friends.
He'd
gestured for the waitress to come over, and she started to make her way
but paused to pour coffee for other customers. Lola took the time that
the waitress was using to pour coffee to explain 'patrol' for Calden.
"Yeah.
Making rounds, checking out dark corners, listening for screams and
wails of anguish. Y'know-- seek out the things that He sends and make
sure that I send them right back."
Calden White
At
least Calden doesn't seem too put off by Lola's instant defensiveness.
If anything, the Stagsman looks faintly apologetic -- sorry he'd made a
joke too early, sorry he'd hit a sore spot, something.
Neither of
them say much of it, though. They move on: she talks of patrols, he
prompts for more information. She tells him. He quirks.
"As in
you call in the info to the rest of the family, or as in you run in guns
blazing?" -- and here they have to pause briefly because the waitress
arrives. They order: Calden gets the double giant cheeseburger. Lola, meanwhile, gets what Lola wants.
The waitress departs. Calden waits until she's out of earshot before raising his eyebrows at Lola, waiting for the answer.
Lola Hawkes
Their
conversation takes a brief lull when the waitress arrives. Calden
orders himself a double burger, not a triple. Lola hands the menu up to
the waitress and expresses that she'd like the number six combo and a
coke. While the human woman is around Lola is impatient for her to
leave. You see, Lola doesn't have a lot of experience interacting with
regular human beings. She doesn't know what to say to them, what to
talk about, or why she would even bother to care about what they could
have to say. As far as she was concerned, they were the flock, and the
ignorance that weighed down their brains and limbs and hearts made them
precisely as simple as sheep.
But at least she has the decency not to make this too obvious. She's not cruel to the woman when they order, after all.
Once the waitress has gone away, Calden seeks clarification that Lola is willing to provide.
"Guns
blazing." The Kinswoman adjusted her position and leaned back more
comfortably in the bench that she sat. One arm slung up over the
bench's back, and the other hand settled on the semi-sticky tabletop to
idly push around a cream colored plastic salt shaker.
"See, I was
supposed to be True Born. So I grew up that way-- learned to fight,
learned to wage war and win it, right? Well, I hit like sixteen years
old and get told 'nope, sorry, that's not the way things are', but by
then it's already in my bones." Lola hasn't had to explain this to too
many people. She doesn't stray away from the Sept of Forgotten
Questions very often, and by now all of the Guardians new her face and
her story. The Hawkes clan has been a part of the Sept going all the
way back, in one way or another, after all. She isn't sure of what sort
of reaction to expect from people when they learn she had a birthright
stolen away by fate and poor predictions. When the news broke water at
first everyone looked at her with big sorrowful eyes and it burned her
so hot and angry that she would lash out in a fit of pubescent rage.
Those looks stopped some time ago, though, so it's hard to say how she'd
respond to them now if they were to come again.
"So I keep fighting. It's what I'm good at, and frankly where I think I belong anyway."
Calden White
Lola
isn't the first kin Calden has met who wanted a place on the front
lines. Most of them -- they're driven by something a little more
predictable. Vengeance for a loved one. Jealousy of a loved one. Idealism. Youthful bravado. Something.
Stolen birthright, though. That's a new one.
"What
do you mean," he asks, a touch more carefully this time, remembering
her easy defensiveness, her painfully obvious lack of social radar, "
'supposed to be True Born'?"
Lola Hawkes
She'd
caught his attention with the reason she gave for wanting to join the
fray. He's heard plenty of excuses, reasons and motivations. However, a
stolen birthright wasn't something he was familiar with. What did that
even mean?
His tone was careful, like he was walking on
eggshells. This woman was strange and unfamiliar. He's only heard
about her, just as she's only ever heard about him. She knows that he's
a Fianna kinsman who lives up north, and that she's never actually seen
his face before although they've been Kin in the same geographic area
pretty much all of their lives. He knows that she's part of a family
tied to Forgotten Questions and that she's got some reputation toward
aggression.
He sought clarification as to what a stolen birthright
was, and Lola was willing to explain further. She starts out at a
normal tone for the first couple of words, then remembers herself and
drops it to something softer that won't branch out too far from their
corner booth in the dinner.
"You know how when a baby's born,
they'll take it to a Shaman to determine if it's True Born or not? When
they did that for me, the Shaman told my parents that I'd be an
Ahroun. No one questioned her, she was old and wise and hadn't been
wrong before.
"Well, she was wrong. I kept waiting for the
Change, and while it found the Cubs around me it never actually found
me. My sister tried to push it on me, and I'd been in some places where
it should've come, but..." She realized she was losing her point and
shook her head a little. Just because she spent time with a pack of
Galliards didn't make her one. "We went back to her, and she said that I
was Kin, not True, that her first reading must've been murky or
misguided or some shit.
"So here I had this right that I was
brought up knowing would be mine, and then it was stolen away." She
snapped her fingers. "Like that. But I don't think all that training
and work and dedication should be put out to pasture because of it, you
know?"
Calden White
There's a quiet irony in this
not quite lost on Calden. That Lola should have been prophesied an
Ahroun and turned out a kin; that she should have gone on to -- well, if
not quite to resent her nature, then at least to be driven to overcome
it, to make it as close to what she thought she would be as possible. And all the while, another woman in his life had quite the opposite
story. Prophesied a kin. Raised a kin, treated as a kin, groomed for a
useful life as a kin -- only to up and Change one day. And then: to
miss the life she thought she'd have.
"I'm sorry," Calden says quietly. "That sounds like it would be devastating."
Their
burgers arrive. The timing could be better; it interrupts a pensive
moment. Still, Calden keeps his composure. He spreads a paper napkin
in his lap and arranges the lettuce and tomato on his burger before
mashing the top bun down on it.
Then, after the waitress is
thanked and departs: "For what it's worth, I have a friend who had the
exact opposite happen to her. She thought all her life she would be
kin, and then -- she wasn't. And you know, I don't think she's any
happier about losing what she thought was her future."
A small pause.
"She
is happy with what she is, though. It's possible, I think, to regret
losing something even while you appreciate gaining something else."
Lola Hawkes
Quiet
follows her story, pierced by Calden's quiet apology. This is
interrupted not by either of them breaking the quiet, but instead by the
waitress arriving with their food. Calden arranged his burger in a way
that would keep it from falling apart and told her a short story about
someone he knew with precisely opposite the problem.
Lola plucked
the pickles from her chicken sandwich, set them aside on the tray or
plate or what-have-you that the food arrived on, and looked up at the
rancher with eyebrows raised inquisitively.
"Ah... Winona, right? I know her."
She
drinks about a quarter of her soda in one go before setting the cup
aside and leans forward to take her sandwich up in both hands. He said
that he thought it was possible to regret losing what she had, but still
appreciate what she had gained. Lola's answer to that is a harsh,
unapologetic scoff.
"Not sure what there is to be gained when the
shoe's on the other foot here. Winona? She gained abilities-- she can
go to the Spirits, she can Change, she can command Powers. Me? I lost
all of that. Not sure what I gained to replace what was lost that
couldn't have already been there in the first place, friend."
And the chicken sandwich is consumed, also a quarter of it gone before she takes her first break in eating.
Calden White
"I
haven't the faintest idea who Winona is," Calden replies, that smile
stealing back onto his face, "but obviously that's a more common story
than most.
"You did lose all that," he adds, "but what you've
gained is the ability to do what we're doing right now. Sit in a diner.
Eat. Be anonymous, pretend to be human. Not get stared at like we're the worst sorts of monsters, even if we're just minding our own business.
"You
also more than likely gained the opportunity to live a full life. Have
a job. Do something with your time other than fight, fight, fight and
die. Graduate college, get married, have kids, watch them grow up,
watch them graduate college and get married and have kids of their own.
Grow old. Die peacefully in your bed knowing -- not just hoping, but knowing -- your descendants have all done well for themselves, and your family's going to be fine without you."
Calden
shrugs, a lift and fall of his shoulders. "It's not to say either one
of the options is necessarily better than the other. It's just that for
everything you think you've lost, I think someone like Winona could
name something she's lost that you still have."
Lola Hawkes
Waxing
poetic as he is, it seemed to Lola that Calden might have preferred
that mundane type of life. He speaks highly of the opportunity to blend
in to the crowd, to lead a normal life and have a job. He says that
she could now get married, have kids, be a grandma and retire and get
old and die peacefully in her bed.
The longer he talks, the more
offended Lola appears. He gets to the point of saying 'Do something
with your time other than...' and she's biting back some vocal
ejaculation or other, and when it occurs to her that she has to actively
try not to interject with her disagreement Lola reels it back in. She
realizes how she's letting herself appear-- oh, not in front of Calden.
She was glancing toward the patrons in the diner instead, making sure
that she hadn't pulled their attention over their way. When the one
gentleman glancing distractedly in their direction looked back away to
his coffee, Lola looked back to Calden's face. This time, though, her
expression is more restrained (not necessarily tempered or entirely
quelled).
When he shrugs and concludes, Lola leans over the plate
and the sandwich she has since put down upon it and taps her finger tip
lightly on the tabletop between them to punctuate her point that she
followed to make in a slowed (but not to the point of threatening yet)
and low voice.
"That's what they are, White." The name, not the
race, it's not like that. "We are with our Cousins. Our allegiance
doesn't lay with them, neither does our cause. To bleed into their
society like that? To live in that world more than the one we belong
to? Ain't how it's supposed to be. Sometimes that's how it has to be,
for the purpose of money and saturation, but it isn't ideal.
"I
was gonna be out there with them anyways. I wasn't gonna leave my post
or put down my arms. You might have? 'Winona' might have," and yes,
she's using the name Winona figuratively, representationally. "But not
me. I just got shit taken away, right? I didn't bring nothin' back.
"So,
stolen birthright. And that's why I keep on these patrols and go
alongside the Cousins. 'Cause it's what I know, and what I was made
for."
Calden White
Lola looks offended. Calden
looks -- well. Not angry, not quite, but: a little flummoxed. A little
put-off. The Fianna is frowning, no longer eating his burger; he's
looking at Lola like something about her just doesn't quite compute for
him.
At length he gives another shrug. "No one's asking you to
lay down your arms. I've just met you. I don't mean to tell you how to
live your life. I wouldn't, even if I knew you far, far better than I
do.
"I just don't think going through life feeling cheated of
something you never had in the first place is a very fulfilling way to
live. And I think feeling constantly less because of what you do have is ... self-sabotaging."
Lola Hawkes
For
a few moments they sat, both looking bothered and confused by one
another. Calden couldn't grasp something about her, he couldn't get why
she pined to be something more than what she was so much that she would
risk herself emulating it. Lola, in turn, couldn't come close to
wrapping her mind around the concept of, what she perceived to be at
least, leaving the Garou Nation to the side in favor of living a life
among the drab flocks of society.
Calden White lived with other
people and owned livestock. Lola's family was gone, and she wouldn't
keep animals on her land because it was so close to the Bawn. As much
as she might have wanted a horse to ride around on her patrols of the
Bawn's perimeter, she instead had to settle for her own two feet and
occasionally either the dirt bike or four wheeler, depending on the
season. A horse would only be a waste of money-- it would be killed by a
Garou within a year, for certain.
It was the older and wiser of
the two Kinfolk that spoke first, diplomatic and polite. I'm not trying
to tell you how to live your life, he said. He said, simply, that
thinking less of yourself is setting yourself up for failure.
Lola's
hackles smoothed back down, and she picked up her sandwich again.
"Alright," she concedes. "But I'll have you know that I don't think
less of what I am right now. I wish it could'a been the other way, but
things are what they are. I'm doing just fine with the resources I
have."
Sandwich washed down with soda, and she leads into: "So,
yeah, I'll patrol. Not through the city so much these days, though,
since the Spire got their shit back up and running. I stick closer to
home anymore, until they need me here again."
Calden White
She doesn't think less of what she is, Lola asserts.
"Good,"
Calden says. He sounds warm. He sounds like he means it. He sounds,
perhaps, just a little relieved. "I'd hate to think you went through
life despising what you were."
There's a small pause.
"I do
get it," he admits, then. "I do get how sometimes you might look at one
of our cousins and wish you could run that fast. Jump that far. Move
so silently, or so quickly. Kill so easily. And I get how sometimes
you might think you got tails on the cosmic coin flip.
"But I try
to remember that I have a lot of things, a lot of opportunities, they
never could. And I try to remember that if tables were ever turned, I'd
lose just as much as I gained, if not more."
He takes a sip of
beer. Then he sets it down, looks across the table at Lola. "If you
ever need help," he says, "you should let me know. I don't exactly
cruise for danger, but I'll help a friend in need. And if nothing else,
you're welcome to hide out on my ranch if you need to."
Lola Hawkes
"If the fuckin' Feds ever come after me, I'll be sure to."
Lola's
referring to the park rangers of Roxbourough State Park, actually. She
feuds with them regularly, although she's been on a dry spell since the
spring of this year and has done a good job of leaving them alone these
days. Calden, however, might worry that she'll try and hide on his
property after the cops shine a flashlight on her while she's
dismembering fallen foes for clean-up.
She doesn't clarify for
him, that's just left to hang, and he can't be sure if she was joking
with him or not. Her tone wasn't nearly clear enough.
"If you
need anything in return, though... I mean a fighter or some hands and
muscle for helping with something on the Ranch-- dude, I'll bet those
floods kicked your ass, huh? -- You let me know."
They didn't see
eye to eye necessarily, but both had firm and mutual understanding of
the importance of creating these alliances, and that it was
counter-productive to make rivals or enemies of someone instead.
So
the rest of the meal is pleasant enough, if not made a little awkward
by Lola's lack of social grace. They finish their food and drinks, Lola
pays for her meal (yes she does, god damnit, and if he leaves anything
for that tab it'll end up tip for the waitress if you ask Lola how the
cash was divided), and they head out to the parking lot.
Calden will drive North.
Lola, to the South.
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