Liz Sherman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
walking_napalm) wrote2008-09-19 02:33 am
walking_napalm) wrote2008-09-19 02:33 am
Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense
"What is it this time, guys?" Liz calls, business-like and quick, as she catches up to the knot of mobilizing agents moving down the hall. The scene is controlled chaos, the familiar red warning flashing and sending sharp scarlet light across people's faces as cases and crates are wheeled this way and that way. The roar of a plane's propellers is audible even from here, though the hangar's a ways down the corridor.
"Getting reports of at least one Wendigo in a rural area of Manitoba, maybe more," Agent Steel answers.
Liz snags her gunbelt from a passing case and starts buckling it on. "Casualties?"
"At least three people from a remote village have turned up shredded; maybe more, the full report's still coming in."
"Great," she mutters tightly, securing her belt, checking her gun, and grabbing a vest off another case, all while still on the move. "Love the ones with shredding."
"Getting reports of at least one Wendigo in a rural area of Manitoba, maybe more," Agent Steel answers.
Liz snags her gunbelt from a passing case and starts buckling it on. "Casualties?"
"At least three people from a remote village have turned up shredded; maybe more, the full report's still coming in."
"Great," she mutters tightly, securing her belt, checking her gun, and grabbing a vest off another case, all while still on the move. "Love the ones with shredding."
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"I'm telling you now, one of those things gnaws on my tail again... " He scowls in a threatening manner and flicks ash from his cigar. "And when it's over I want some hot chocolate ready. With plenty of them tiny marshmallows in it."
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A quick adjustment of pace and she's walking beside him as she shrugs on the B.P.R.D. vest, leather jacket tucked under her arm.
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"Wendigos. They the people shredding kind or they just around for the moose?"
Speaking around his cigar he glances over at her for an answer.
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Conversationally: "Canada." She half-draws her pistol from its holster, looking it over, then (satisfied) slides it back in and snaps the cover over it. "Weren't we just there?" She has a winter hat tucked into the back pocket of her pants; she snags it and pulls it on over her ears. They'll have a couple hours' flight before they have to set foot in Manitoba, but even at this time of year, it won't be incredibly warm, and the B.P.R.D. planes -- well, Liz for one would appreciate it if they were slightly better insulated.
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"I was there not too long ago with the Ogopogo thing. Probably some other stuff too, hard to keep track."
He shrugs then looks down at her as she pulls on her hat.
"Lemme know if you need to borrow my coat. Don't mind sharing."
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One agent's voice cuts over the rest who are talking all around them; he has a cell phone glued to his ear. "They're saying at least one's pretty big," he says, and Liz doesn't roll her eyes, as she looks away from Red, but it's a near thing.
"They're always big," she points out, as they step out into the hangar. The cargo plane that's warming up is a bustling center of activity, with ground crew and agents working in and around each other.
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To the agent on the phone he gives a gruff snort and shakes his head, "Big just means they need more knocks and a couple more bullets is all."
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"Ten minutes," says a passing member of the flight crew.
Liz glances at the label on the nearest tall trunk. From the looks of things, it's coming in instead of going out with them, and it has the added bonus of not being on wheels. She leans against it; starts to pull on her black jacket -- and discovers that it is covered in cat hair of every natural color.
She sighs, sharply, and gives it a shake.
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"You outta get one of those sticky roller things like Myers. Guy buys em' by the case, could maybe give you a few." He suggests, trying to be helpful.
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He stops, his smile thinning out and tilts his head at her.
"What's wrong with the cats?"
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They are all currently sli~iding away from this conversation.
"It's not that there's something wrong with them; it's that--" She sighs. "Thirty doesn't seem like a few too many cats to you?"
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"My cats aren't stinky."
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She shoots a look right back at him.
"It stinks, Red."
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So he gets defensive.
"Well, what do you want me to do about it? I already offered to knock down some walls to make more space but you an' Manning won't let me do it."
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With great restraint.
"You could do what most people do when their cat has kittens," she retorts. "Find them good homes." Less irritated; a little kinder, if still frustrated: "You know, let go?"
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He can't win by arguing, he can't win with possible solutions that involve breaking things, his next course of action is to ignore the problem and its obvious solution.
So, he turns his attention to the agent he was talking to earlier instead, the man very determinedly not listening in to the argument as he stands reading a crate label for the tenth time.
"Hey! You call ahead for them marshmallows? I know we don't have any here to take along so you better be doin' some coordinating over there, pal."
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Liz sighs. She puts a hand on Red's arm; when she's got his attention, she draws him away a couple of feet, close enough that the conversation could still be made out if things got touchy, but far enough that the noise of the propellers acts as a buffer when their voices are lower.
Her voice is lower. "I'm just saying," she says. "You can't keep them all, you know. Eventually, there are gonna be enough cats that you can't even walk from the couch to the fridge. It'll be like a," she gestures, a little awkwardly; she's really trying here, "creepy cat carpet or something." There's a shout; she glances away for a second, but it's not directed at them, and she looks back to him. "I like them, you know I do, but I woke up this morning with kittens on my face, Red. I can't take two steps without almost flattening somebody's tail."
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By the end of it his face isn't made up of so many hard lines anymore. The scowl is gone and replaced with reluctant acceptance of her points.
He turns his head to look down at her again and gives a short sigh.
"What can I do with 'em? I don't know anyone to give any too. Unless any of you guys want a kitten." He lifts his voice on the last part and looks around at the other agents.
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"Well," she says. "Somebody around here might want one; you never know. And there's always Milliways." Red's making a big concession, and Liz knows it. She lays a hand on his chest; brushes an invisible piece of lint off his coat lapel. "I might know a family there that's looking for a cat."
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If not he's going to have to meet them before he turns over a kitten to them. And anyone else who might possibly offer a home.
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Liz folds her arms again, but it's casual this time; not annoyed.
"She was pretty easy to talk to."
Beat.
Wry: "You know, for a talking house."
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That doesn't sound like a cat-safe environment to him.
And he doesn't know any of the other people mentioned.
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"Some kind of computer thing."
She slants a look up at him. "Just -- think about it." She touches his chin between thumb and forefinger, a fleeting caress that has become something of a habit. "That's all I'm asking." She smoothes his goatee down as she lets her hand fall back to her side.
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"All right, Liz. An' I'll get those litter boxes cleaned up when we get back."
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