---- Recall start ----
 The place has been transformed--all possible space has been filled with 
tables and chairs, and more space has been made to fill. A buffet-style bar 
lines the wall next to the kitchen. There is bustle, noise and commotion to 
fill a space twice this size.  A small knot of reporters clusters around Buick.

 Elan comes in, shivering a bit with the cold wind cutting through his 
tattered jacket.

Regan Hope Project(#3662RAJ)
This barn of a room with eggshell blue walls has been divided up into several different areas. In the east end are several apartments formed by carpeted walls, similar to those found in office buildings. In the centre is a day care/play area walled off by a two-foot fence. Off to the west are apartments similar to the ones in the east, but much larger. A prominently placed sign reads "Guns Will Be Checked. No Kidding. No Exceptions." in red felt tip. There is a large painting on the floor, an intricately-painted magpie.
There are large double doors set in the south wall to allow access to Regan Avenue. There is a smaller door off to the left of them.(+view alert)
Contents:
Ralph L. James
Seirian
Elan
Emrys
Whitey

Elan lifts his lip when he sees the reporters, but carefully tries to stay out 
of view and out of camera angles. He moves around to one of the doors to the 
kitchen.

Ralph L. James enters quietly (or was he here all the while?). Outstanding in 
neither face nor clothing, the older man stands close enough a group of people 
to appear not to be alone, yet far enough away that he's not truly a part of it.

The savoury smell of turkey, and buttered corn and brown gravy and numourous 
other dishes delicately fills the air. The line is long, but moves quickly as 
people fill their plates and move on to a table.

Seirian slips through the front doors with a light smile on her face. Slung 
over her back is a worn guitar case and a small backpack, both secured to her 
firmly. A raggy Santa hat hangs at a lopsided angle off her head, the pompom 
topped by a slightly rusty jingle bell. Her nose lifts slightly as she takes 
in the scents, one bare hand rubbing her cold-flushed cheeks.

Ralph L. James mills near the end of the line, not stepping forward with it and 
instead letting the others nearby fill in ahead of him. With bland eyes he 
scans the room, his gaze only skimming over the adults, but perhaps lingering a 
little longer on the younger people. This is not outstanding, however, those 
within the line do look around the room as they wait, as well.

Elan moves into the kitchen, looking for a place where he can be useful.

Whitey grabs a small child who tries to race past her on some impetuous errand, 
snatching him up in her arms. "Slow down, Luis, you'll hurt somebody," she 
scolds gently.

Ralph jerks slightly as he sees the young child get snatched up. A muscle 
twitches to life near the corner of his mouth as he stares at the scene, then 
forcefully he rips his gaze away. Now he steps into line.

Seirian looks over the crowded room and smiles, finding herself a place off to 
one side that isn't completely mobbed. She careful wends her way through the 
crowd to get to it, politely asking if a chair is taken. Upon finding that it 
isn't, she drags it out of traffic and settles her guitar case and backpack 
beside it.

Sra Puentes scurries up, apologising profusely to Whitey in spanish as she 
takes the child and goes to stand in line with him. Whitey drifts over to join 
Buick inside the knot of reporters.

Ralph L. James turns to watch Sra and the child once more. Ahead of him the 
line inches forward, yet the older man remains in place until the person behind 
him speaks up. He steps forward, out of the line, letting the woman (and those 
behind her) pass him by. Still he watches the child, looking lost in his 
memories.

Elan begins to bustle about the kitchen, aiding where he can. It's certainly 
not a palace of silver flatware and copper pots like a Toreador's kitchen, but 
it'll do. He wades in and starts to help whereever he's needed.

You paged Elan with 'Of course, in a Toreador's kitchen you'd have bulls 
running wild. So there's a benefit there. (:'.

Seirian pops the guitar case open, pulling out the worn instrument with the 
same quiet smile. Perching on the chair, she quickly works at tuning the 
strings, her gaze occasionally roving around the room as she does. A faint 
humming sound accompanies the tuning, which takes a few minutes.

The family orientation of the Project makes this dinner quite different from a 
Mission Street soup kitchen. Small family groups, children... a much more 
amiable and warm spirit seems to prevade.

Buick lifts his head and turns toward the sound of the tuning, frowning as he 
seeks its source. Then, satisfied, he slips an arm around Whitey and turns back 
to the reporters.

Ralph L. James's expression darkens, as if the story going on within his head 
just took a rather unpleasant turn. Once more he has to almost violently rip 
his attention from the child, and this time moves away from the line 
altogether. He wanders the room, pausing now and again to stare.

Elan comes out after a bit, and brings a large tureen of soup with him. He sets 
it down and begins to gather a few used dishes out here.

Sra Puentes moves along the line, filling two plates with one hand, carrying 
Luis with the other. She chats with the woman before her and laughs quietly.

Seirian bows her head slightly after the guitar and begins to play. She keeps 
her playing to Christmas songs, though, it seems she's been practicing on 
those. Her playing is hesitantly quiet, but gains strength over a bit of 
playing.

Ralph's meandering path brings him towards the door this time. Stopping near 
the wall next to it, he scans the family coming in, his brow furrowed and his 
expression very worried.

Elan goes over to the line, asking people - in English and Spanish -- if there 
is anything he can get for them.

Second verse, same as the first: Ralph's attention gets caught by a child, a 
little boy of no more than six years, a kid with bright blond hair and an 
expression which displays a look of good-natured troublemaking. The older man's 
eyes lose focus and he appears to get lost in his thoughts as the kid races 
closer to the door, and to the spot he's standing in.

With a loud clatter, Luis reaches out and drags a large dish of sweet potatoes 
off the table and onto the floor, with a few smaller dishes trailing in its 
wake.

Elan shakes his head a bit, and grins as he heads over to clean up Luis' mess. 
"Now, now. I guess we'll have to give this to the dogs, eh, muchacho?"

Not all eyes in the room go to the noise and the spill of sweet potatoes, it 
seems. When people stop rubbernecking, they might notice Ralph is now gone. Or 
they might see if they had ever noticed him to begin with...

Luis stares for a moment, enthralled with the mess, then begins to cry.

Seirian looks up in the middle of 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' at the clatter, 
and chuckles softly, murmuring something about large families and home. Her 
smiling eyes look over the crowd slowly, taking in faces here and there.

Ralph L. James pages to the room: Don't mind me not OOCly leaving, just 
continue on, nothing to see here...

Elan crouches by Luis. "Now, now, mi muchacho. Don't cry, it's OK. No grite; 
es aceptable."

Buick looks up again, another curious frown, and then a smile and dismissal.

From afar, to the room, Elan ponders how much of a heart attack he'd give Buick 
if Elan did Rite of the Sevens in the kitchen behind his back...

Moose comes out of the kitchen with a mop, moving clumsily but carefully 
through the crowd with a mop.

Buick pages the room: How quickly did you want to wear out your welcome? (:

Seirian shifts her tune to a soft version of 'Silent Night', casting a glance 
at the crying child and hoping the music does a little to help soothe him.

Not long after the clatter, scant moments, in fact, comes a scream from 
outside. A child's? A cat proclaiming its territory or in heat? It's hard to 
tell, but if it /is/ a child's, then this kid is in a lot of pain.

Buick predictably frowns and looks toward the door, murmuring to Whitey.

Elan glances that way also, standing up from Luis and the mess. He starts to 
move that direction.

At the sound, a woman half-rises from her seat and her dinner, scanning the 
room. She frowns, stands up the rest of the way, and looks around again. 
"Billy?"

Seirian blinks and looks away from the object of her playing, eyes straying to 
the door as she frowns as well. She doesn't stop playing however, and smooths 
her expression to one of almost complete calm to keep from enciting more worry 
in others.

Moose does not look up from his work, just tries to stay out of the way of the 
line.

"Billy?" the woman calls again, louder. She leaves her table now, moving to 
the center of the room to turn in a full, frantic circle as she looks.

Whitey slips across the room, searching here and there, moving toward the 
kitchen's door.

Buick moves toward the center of the room as well, toward the woman. "Has 
anybody seen Billy?" he asks, trying to keep the situation calm.

Elan tries to scent Billy, or hear him; the young Gnawer is more intent on 
this now that it's obvious someone is missing.

Seirian continues playing, switching to another Christmas song as her eyes 
scan the crowd. She cranes her neck occasionally, as if trying to see around 
someone in hopes of locating the missing Billy.

"My son!" The young woman cries, running to Buick. "He was here a moment ago! 
Where is he?" As she demands his whereabouts, another scream is heard. This 
time more than one person glances towards the door.

Whitey slips into the kitchen, disappearing.

Elan, at the edge of the crowd, already moving into action as the second scream 
is heard, and bounds towards the sound.

Buick looks over his shoulder. "Whi--dammit," he growls, and then moves to 
follow Elan, drawing his bow from off his shoulder.

Elan leaves through the large double doors.

The reporters, like hounds scenting a lame raccoon, whip out their cameras and 
move for the door.

Alleyway(#3636RJ)
It's Christmas on GarouMUSH. Blood flows down the walls of this GM room, body 
parts are scattered from corner to corner, and steaming innards adorn the 
green, plastic tree. There's a single gift under the bloodied branches, a 
brightly wrapped package. And it has your name on it. Dare you open it?

Ralph L. James pages to the room: Don't mind the room desc. 

Whitey> Quick on Buick's heels, the woman races through the door. "Billy!" she 
calls.

Whitey> Seirian slips from her perch, leaving the guitar behind her on the 
chair and moving towards the door. Instead of exiting out it, though, she 
attempts to intercept the reporters. "Folks, folks, stay here, please. If 
somethin's goin' on out there, I'm sure ye'll only get in th'way." She keeps 
her voice calm, though with an entreating note.

The Gnawer is leading the pack, somehow hearing what others are not. The source 
is not far away, luckily for all those out-of-shape reporters. Elan's path will 
lead him to an alley's dark mouth.

Whitey> One of the reporters is stayed, but the other three move around 
Seirian. "This sounds like news, sister," says one, "And the public has a right 
to know!"

Whitey> Seirian raises an eyebrow and folds her arms over her chest, "Oh, do 
they now? I suppose they also have th'right t'know tha' ye'd prolly scare off 
whoe'er might be doin' wrong out there." She's still in a good humor, and 
doesn't seem at all uncomfortable with the sudden attention.

In rapid succession, Buick the mother and three of the reporters follow Elan 
like a keystone cop set up.

Whitey> The one reporter smiles sheepishly and shrugs as the other three head 
out the door. "I. Well, um. You can't tell 'em anything."

Elan growls back in his throat at the procession he's leading, but resolutely 
does not go Glabro. It doesn't stop him from drawing a large hunting knife as 
he enters the alley darkness. He's been down this way more than a few times on 
patrol.

Whitey> Seirian shakes her head and calls after them in a slightly irritated 
voice. "Y'all are goin' t'do more 'arm than good, ye know?" Shaking her head, 
she sighs and looks back to the remaining reporter. "At least one o'ye had 
sense t'stay here."

The alley forms an 'L' ahead. As the group draws closer, a man's voice can be 
heard, but is too low to catch the words -- the tone is *not* threating, 
however. A child's weakening whimper answers it.

Ralph L. James pages: You keep posing for the reporters?
You paged Ralph L. James with 'Sure. I introduced them.'.
Ralph L. James pages: Cool.

Elan skids at the corner and looks down the turn, the knife held so it can be 
brought to bear at once. He narrows his eyes as he skids, scanning the darkness 
ahead.

Buick glances over his shoulder, and slows. "Whyn't you all just wait back 
here?" he suggests. He manages to stop one of the reporters and the mother, at 
least briefly.

Ralph L. James pages: (For them:) The alley continues on a ways down from you. 
Ahead you see an older man sitting on the ground, the body of a child in his 
lap. A bloody knife is held in his hand, and the child's chest is so thick with 
blood you cannot see how many stab wounds are on it from here. Kid's throat is 
also slashed, as is one of his cheeks.

Elan growls at Buick, who is right behind him; "Keep those bastards back." He 
forces himself to be calm, so his anger does not interfere with his duty, and 
he's down the alley in a flash. His main concern is the kid, and the healing 
power he has in his hands. If he's in time.

The two reporters, who are now right behind Elan, cringe for a moment, but not 
long. Leaning to try and shoot around Elan's racing form, their flashes explode 
over and over in the dark. "Holy shit!" exclaims the one.

From afar, to the room, Elan oops.

This seems to be all the impetus that the last reporter and the mother need, 
tearing loose from Buick and racing down the alley.

Ralph L. James hunches lower over the child as the footsteps reach him, but 
lifts his tear and blood streaked face to look. "St-stay back!" he orders, his 
voice cracking with pain and fear. The knife hovers over Billy, and the kid 
moans softly.

Long distance to Elan: Buick grins and just figures that Elan /thought/ Buick 
was right behind.

From afar, to the room, Elan didn't see that Buick had failed to stop them. 
Man, reporting is such a dangerous job.

Elan walks forward, trying to keep an easy manner about him, totally at odds 
with the frantic reporters behind him. "It's OK. I'll help him," he says, and 
tries to get within touching distance of the kid.

Buick reaches out, trying to stop /somebody/. He catches the mother's shoulder, 
she slips on a patch of ice, and both go down in a graceful swoon, landing on 
the asphalt.

The knife slashes lower as Elan advances. "Stay back!" the man orders, tears 
flowing down his face anew. The knife slices over the kid's other cheek, 
opening another line which quickly adds more blood to Ralph's lap and the 
street.

The reporters move in closer as well, staggering their shots as they reload 
with expert speed.

Ralph L. James pages: We'll give him jam tech on the cameras.
You paged Ralph L. James with 'All of them?'.
Ralph L. James pages: How about two of the three? (Plus they have shots from 
before he used the gift.)

Elan stops and but locks his eyes on the man's.

Long distance to Ralph L. James: Buick nods. Is not worried, but was asking.
From afar, Ralph L. James nods. Cool.

The woman crawls toward the bend in the alleyway. "Billy!" she shrieks, trying 
to find her feet as she moves.

From afar, YT waves. I'm late!

Ralph L. James keeps his eyes moving, darting from Elan to the reporters and 
back. The knife weaves unsteadily, dripping blood and gore down onto the form 
in his lap. "St- stay-," the man is close to sobbing now, rocking the boy's 
body as he tries to order the Gnawer to keep his distance.

You paged Ralph L. James with 'So did he use it?'.
Long distance to Drew: Buick grins and waves. You went away. We were sad.
Ralph L. James pages: Jam tech? Yes, a pose or two back.
From afar, YT whimpers. Am I allowed to show up late? <:)

The flashing diminishes considerably, two of the cameras dropping 
simultaneously, and two reporters exclaiming "Damn! My flash died..." and then 
frowning at each other.

You paged Drew with 'Um. Not much is happening in the Project besides dinner 
right now.'.

The last photographer shakes her head, not looking away from her work. "Tough 
break, kids," she says, sounding not very soothing.

Elan darts in quickly; two years of near-constant martial arts training lends 
a lithe quickness to his form as he tries to block the knife with his own 
body - a hand, an arm, it matters little to him. His main -- his only concern 
is getting the man away from the kid, or getting close enough to the kid to 
heal him in the seconds that follow.

From afar, YT nods. Just call when you need me, then.

The Gnawer is saved a wound. As he rushes in, Ralph drops the weapon and uses 
both arms to lift the boy to his thin chest, looking like he's trying to 
protect Billy from Elan with his own body. "No!" he cries. ""Don't hurt him!" 
The Garou can get a hold of the the body, but Ralph doesn't look like he's 
going to be letting go willingly. "My son, he's hurt," he whimpers, rocking the 
still body.

One reporter starts bludgeoning his camera to get it to work, the other pulls 
out a notebook and scribbles furiously.

Elan tries his best to lay on hands, sheilding his attempt from the reporters. 
"It's OK!" he says, probably ineffectually, to the man. The knife is gone, 
though, and that's the most important thing.

Billy's mother, having pushed to her feet, reaches the bend in the alley and 
pushes the third reporter aside. A dramatic pause, then a scream.

The bloody knife rests in a slick of blood by Ralph's knee. The man seems not 
to be hearing the child's mother at all, he only continues to rock the 
unbreathing body, letting Elan do as he will. "My son, my son," he repeats as 
his body shakes with his sobs.

The remaining encamera'd reporter gets a few quick shots of mom before dropping 
the camera to change film rolls.

Elan shakes his head as he back away, blood staining his shirt. "He's already 
gone," he says hoarsely. His fist balls up and it looks like he's right on the 
edge of just popping off. He looks back to Buick. "You better call the cops, 
dude."

Buick nods grimly, holding on to Billy's mother. "Told Whitey t'do that when I 
left."

As Elan backs away, Ralph's total attention returns to rocking the body. Almost 
on cue, sirens can be heard approaching from the north.

Elan looks up to the man. "Why?" is the only thing out of his mouth.

"My son," is the only thing the older gentleman keeps repeating, not seeming to 
hear Elan's question anymore than he notices the reporters or the mother. Tears 
flow, cutting pink streaks throuth the red blood on his cheeks.

"Jeezus, this is gruesome. Christmas Killer found--what a fuckin' headline!" 
mutters one of the reporters.

Elan stays for a bit, then walks back towards Buick. "Court'll decide that, 
shit-for-brains," he growls to the reporter, already knowing what the verdict 
will be. He shakes his head at Buick. "I gotta go," he says, trying futilely to 
wipe at his coat. It's trashed; he'll never get the stains out.

Buick makes a face, as if he expected this. "Hey, take her with ya, okay? Get 
her back inside?"

The sirens grown slowly nearer, but are not yet on the scene.

Elan nods dumbly to Buick and takes hold of the woman's arm. "Nothing you can 
do, here," he says, swallowing hard. He tries to make his way back to the 
Project with her.

She doesn't seem to resist, and follows along with Elan.

Following the unfollowed rule of not messing with the crime scene, the 
photographers circle around the man at a discrete distance, taking last photos 
or notes or... just looking.

Sometime after the two leave, a single cop car arrives. The expected happens: 
backup is called, a crime scene is set up, Ralph is taken away in cuffs, and 
the body is covered. Just your usual Christmas in St. Claire...

You paged Ralph L. James with 'Who's doing the article for the paper?'.
From afar, Ralph L. James supposes she should. Want something added? Not added?
Long distance to Ralph L. James: Buick shrugs. mention the Project Christmas 
Dinner, is about it.
From afar, Ralph L. James nods.

Elan drops the woman off with Whitey, suggesting she be watched and... hell, 
they know all the steps. He takes a look around the once-festive area, then 
leaves out a back way, to seek solace with pack and fellows. If he can.

Ralph L. James pages to the room: That about wraps it up. Thanks for playing, 
sorry it was depressing, but I wanted something dark for the WoD Christmas.
Buick pages the room: And God bless us every one.
From afar, to the room, Elan grins.

You paged Good Fortune with 'Oh, and mention the wealth of lurid photos.'.
From afar, Good Fortune nods and will.
You paged Seirian with 'Billy's mom comes back after a while. Then cops come 
for her.'.

---- Recall end ----

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