Shea paces into the cave, with a rabbit dangling limp from her fingers. She
stops beside the bound Galliard, and sinks into a crouch over her heels.
"Hey. Hungry?"

Erik opens his eyes and fixes a bland, passionless gaze upon the Theurge. His
attention shifts briefly to the rabbit, noting it, and then back to Shea;
not a flicker of emotion passes across the skeletal face. "Affirmative," he
says, and the voice is flat, without lilt, without music.

Shea mms. "Aye? Then you're going to have to try sounding a little more human,
in order to eat. Computers don't need feeding."

Erik continues to regard her with that uncharacteristically direct gaze, with
an impassiveness that's quite alien to the Metis Galliard. "Fallacy," he
states, flatly.

Shea's eyebrows lift. "Oh? I've never heard of a computer that wanted feeding.
Metal doesn't get hungry, lad. It's got no feelings at all. You're a prime
example." She lays the rabbit down by her feet.

Erik repeats, "Fallacy." A beat. "Release me."

"Why?" The theurge returns that direct gaze.

Erik considers a moment. "Specify."

One corner of Shea's mouth quirks upward. "Why should I release you?"

Erik replies, "So that this unit can return to his duties."

Shea says "Which duties would those be?"

"To protect those that bind," says the cyborged Garou. "To subdue."

Shea stabs a finger at the cyborg. "You're speaking in riddles. I don't much
care for riddles."

Erik asks, "You request clarification?"

Shea smirks. "Yes, I request clarification."

Erik clarifies, then. "The one called ~Weaver~ claims the world. This unit and
others subdue and protect those that bind the webs."

Shea hehs. "You're one of Gaia's chosen, whether you choose to remember it or
not. Not a servant of the Weaver. If that's the duty you want to go back to,
then you'll stay as you are, bound."

The altered Garou does not argue. Neither does he struggle against his bonds.
He does, however, continue to gaze at Shea.

Shea climbs to her feet, stooping to take the rabbit with her. "And you don't
eat." She goes to sit toward the mouth of the cave, with the rabbit on her
lap.

Erik says, "Fallacy."

Shea chuckles. "Let -me- clarify. I'm not feeding you, unless you give up the
computer routine. Depends on how badly you want food, I guess."

Impasse. Erik lapses back into silence, watching Shea.

Shea says "I don't guess they let you sing, either, do they? These things that
bind for Weaver, or whatever?"

"Negative."

Shea tsks. "Too bad."

"Clarify."

Shea snorts. "Clarify. Negative. Fallacy. Someone needs to feed you a
dictionary."

Erik seems to consider this for a moment, but has no logical reply.

Shea leaves the rabbit on the floor by the mouth of the cave, as she gets to
her feet. "D'you even know who you are? Or where?"

Erik says, "Affirmative."

Shea says "Well, then? Out with it."

Erik says, "This unit was called Erik Sings-in-Shadows. Son of
Song-of-the-Blackbird, deceased, of the Sept of Stag's Honor. This cave is
located north of the place called Hidden Walk, formerly known as the Wheel
Renewed." The information is recited, rattled off with no hint of emotion.

Shea says "Was called? What're you called now?"

"This unit is designated seven-X-five-three-E-G-one-V-zero-zero-three."

Shea rubs a hand over her face. "I shoulda guessed."

Erik doesn't reply.

Shea chews the inside of her cheek a moment, then asks, "Can you lie?"

"Negative."

Shea says "All right. Do you want to be fixed?"

Erik replies without inflection of any kind. "It is not possible."

Shea's eyebrows lift. "That was different. Why isn't it possible?"

"There is no knowledge."

Shea says "No knowledge of what?"

Erik pauses. "To reverse the Process. There is no knowledge. It is not
possible."

Shea smirks. "Anything's possible."

Erik repeats, "There is no knowledge."

Shea stands looking at Erik, who is still bound. A rabbit lies just inside the
mouth of the cave, dead. "Then we'll -find- the knowledge."

Erik gazes at Shea with the bland expression that's become all too familiar.

Heart-of-Fury trots out of the surrounding forest heading for the cave. He
chuffs a warm friendly greeting for Shea.

Shea looks over her shoulder at Heart-of-Fury. "Evening." She gestures toward
Erik with her chin. "Look who's awake."

Heart-of-Fury growls at Erik, obligingly, showing the mule his teeth. ~I still
say we kill him now.~

Erik turns his attention toward Steven and observes the other Galliard in
silence.

Shea shakes her head. "Not until we've -tried- to fix him. If he's right, and
we can't ... we don't have a choice, hey?"

Heart-of-Fury's muzzle wrinkles anyway. ~All this effort for the mule.~ He
circles away for a half-turn. ~Least we can test all of our theories on him.
Leave a better chance for Eamon.~

Faint rustling from the west announces an arrival: a wolf, by the sound of it.

Heart-of-Fury, already on the way out of the cave comes into the grotto
clearing proper, his hispo form dwarfing the slimmer wolf.

Erik remains where he is, unsurprisingly, in the cave with his fellow
cyberGarou, Eamon.

[Wolf]
The young she-wolf carries herself with a constant readiness; her strong,
sinewy build and hunter's flawless grace seem to wait on the defensive.
Something in her stance and in the way she interacts with others betrays her
as a loner; perhaps the unsettled look, or her unfamiliarity with pack
gestures.Her fur is black: pure darkness unadorned by mark or shading, a
color that seems almost to drink in light and fade into shadows. The
unnerving, piercing eyes are dark as well, dark enough to glint black in the
half-light.

The shape of a dark wolf slowly becomes clearer--a young female, slinking
through the undergrowth, slipping in and out of the forest shadows at the
grotto's edges.

Heart-of-Fury bristles at the intrusion, and he barks for Shea's attention. He
demands an answer to his question from the wolf bitch. Who are you? He pads
closer, trying to scent her in greeting.

At the bark, Shea looks over her shoulder toward the fall, and beyond. She
spares Erik and Eamon a brief glance, ordering, "Stay," before she turns and
joins her packmate.

The wolf whines softly, hanging back, tail and head lowered in submission.
-Searching-for-alpha.-

Shea's eyes narrow on the wolf. "Who's this, then?"

Heart-of-Fury takes the other's scent and then steps back, his muzzle parting
to show his teeth.

The she-wolf ducks her head and leans low to the ground, another gesture of
submission. Then she shifts, shape melting in a fluid changing more like the
shimmer of moonlight than the blurring of a Garou shapeshift.

[Chloe]
Large, almond-shaped eyes, of a brown deep enough to glint black in most
light, dominate delicately sculpted features. High cheekbones, delicate
structure, a full-lipped and generous mouth prone to wry expressions: the
youthful face has its own kind of beauty, strange to some eyes, far from the
conventional good looks of this day and age. Skin of a light golden brown
adds to the exotic cast of her features. Black hair frames the dark eyes in
unruly waves, falling to mid-back. Though she hardly looks older than
nineteen, her expressions and sharp gaze convey a wisdom beyond that age,
and a deep intuitive perception that seems to reach beyond the surface of
things. Her body, lithe and lean, moves with an understated grace: the ease
of movement possessed by athletes and hunters.
A long-sleeved tunic of earth-brown suede falls to her knees, where
its fringed hem flutters over moccasin boots of the same color. Dyed glyphs
decorate the front and the back of the shirt, some of the symbols more
familiar than others. It might be deerskin, by the drape of the hide--or
some other light leather, tanned very thin and supple. The paler brown of
her bare legs shows through the fringes occasionally, above the boots that
lace up to her knees.

Heart-of-Fury crouches low, his growl giving a warning, ready to spring a
clawed pounce at the shapechanger.

Chloe stumbles back--and then leaps directly upward for a low-hanging branch,
swinging herself up mainly on adrenaline and a prayer. "Please--" Her voice
is strained, desperate.

Shea's eyes narrow further. Jaw set, she simply stares at the mage a moment,
before taking a breath and asking, "What do you want?"

Heart-of-Fury's muscles go rigid, and he stops himself from leaping for her
dangling legs. He does growl again, low in his throat.

Chloe winces, and slowly drops, landing a trifle shakily. "I just want to know
that he's okay," she says in an unsteady voice.

Shea's lip curls faintly. "He's fine. Now you know."

Heart-of-Fury seems to imply, rising from his crouch, that Chloe may not be so
fine if she's going to stick around for long.

Chloe takes another step back, and a swallow twists her throat. She watches
Steven apprehensively. "I thought--things were different. I was wrong." A
faint wince. "My... my apologies." It's not something the proud, arrogant
mage says often enough, clearly.

Shea's lip curls further, a parody of a smile. "Things aren't different.
You're too close to the bawn, for my liking. You're in my home. You have
your news. We'll tell him you were here. You can go now."

Heart-of-Fury snarls to reinforce Shea's words. He takes an angry step towards
her.

Another tight swallow, and a flicker of pain crosses her face. "I can't see
him?" She almost whispers the plea.

Shea takes a step forward, herself. "No. We'll tell him you were here," she
repeats. "Now.. best be on your way, don't you think?"

The mage doesn't raise her eyes from the ground.

Heart-of-Fury leaps toward Chloe, swiping for her legs. GO! he snarls.

Chloe stumbles back two steps, shock and grief in her eyes. Then she turns and
bolts, moving native-swift through the woods.

Heart-of-Fury seems pleased with the reaction from the mage and he turns back
to Shea with a satisfied lift in his muzzle.

Tension bleeds out of the theurge's shoulders. "You'd think she'd learn, after
enough time'd passed.."

Heart-of-Fury turns his massive head back to the woods for a moment, before he
considers Shea's words. Have you given any thought to how we can heal Eamon?

Shea shakes her head. "I don't even know where I'd start, without being able
to get -inside- his head."

The answers seems not what the Galliard expected to hear and his tail droops.
He pads over to the pool and settles himself near it, dejectedly.

Erik remains silent within the cave, eyes closed and conserving energy.

Shea follows after. "They know who they are, Steven. They know where they are,
and they know who we are. There's still something of them left."

Heart-of-Fury muzzle wrinkles. I suppose, Thatcher. It just sickens me to see
them twisted this way.

Shea tilts her head. "Want to help me peel the rest of that mess off them?"

Heart-of-Fury lifts his head from his paw and starts to shift into homid.
"Sure," he says, quietly.

Steven says "Though, I'm sure I'm all that anxious to see what Erik's armor
hides."

Shea makes a face. "Believe me, I can think of easier ways to get a thrill."
She picks her way back into the cave again.

Steven finds a dark bit of humor at that and follows.

Erik opens his eyes as the unaltered Garou re-enter the cave.

Steven says "Which one you want to start with? Smiley or his partner
CyberMule?"

Shea grins faintly. "Erik's already lost that damned arm cannon. Let's crack
the rest of his shell. Then it's Eamon's hand, and the rest."

Steven coughs and looks at the mule dubiously, but he follows right behind
Shea. "Wonder if they put an off switch anywhere."

Steven and Shea's humor seems lost on Erik, or
The-Unit-Formerly-Known-As-Erik. In any case, though the armor is, indeed,
removeable, the only visible cybernetics is the interface grafted into his
left forearm and the metal bits around his eye, the latter similar to the
ones visible around both of Ever-Grinning's eyes.

You paged Steven and Shea with 'And the less said about the body under the
armor, the better, neh?'.

Shea's nose wrinkles. She pointedly does not look at Erik, as she points out,
"Probably easy to get that thing out of his arm, if we pull hard enough.
What about the eye?"

Steven shakes his head. "We could cut both them out, maybe." He doesn't appear
to relish the idea of field surgery. "You've got your knife."

Erik remains quiet and passive, watching. Always watching.

Shea makes a face. "Aye, if I want to stick myself, as much as them. My
blade's a little short-tempered."

Steven shakes his head again, then. "I haven't got a damn clue," he says with
a frustrated air.

Erik doesn't seem particularly informative, either.

Shea says "With a different knife, I'd do it. Not with mine, though."

Steven snorts. "Have we asked them how to remove all this shite yet?"

Shea says "Which them? -Them-?"
Shea indicates Eamon and Erik.

Steven nods. "Say, He-Who-Was-Erik. How do we get rid of all this shite?" He
points to his cybernetic arm and eye interfaces. "Do you know?" He pauses.
"And if you say, 'Specify' I'll tear your goddamn throat out."

Erik shifts his gaze toward Steven. "You wish to reverse the Process," he
says, flatly. "It is not possible. There is no knowledge."

Steven scowls at Erik. "Bullshit," he says under his breath. "There has to be
a way. We just don't know what it is yet."

Erik repeats, "There is no knowledge."

Steven's hand clenches and he half considers slamming it into Erik's
midsection. He just grunts and shrugs, and turns back to Shea. "I don't keep
a pocket knife handy, unfortunately."

Shea sighs. "I've got one. It's not very sharp, though."

Steven winces a little. "We'll do the best we can, then, I guess. I certainly
can't think of a better idea. Maybe... maybe you could heal him after we cut
him?"

Shea nods faintly. "That's the easy part. Ehm. Knock him out, or something,"
she suggests, as she heads toward the back of the cave for her jacket, and
the knife in her pocket there.

Steven grins at Erik. "I'm going to /try/ to not enjoy this too much. Believe
me," he says with a tiny chuckle. "This is going to hurt you, more than me."

Erik remains solemn; Steven's humor is lost on the altered Metis.

Steven doesn't mind, and he shifts into glabro to ram Erik's head against the
side of the cave nice and hard a couple of times.

Erik's head makes some nasty thudding sounds, and then the Metis is out cold.

[Shea]
She has the solid, sturdy build of an athlete; lean, like a runner, and
standing at five foot eight inches in height from heel to head. The top
locks of her hair, raven-black, are braided loosely, and bound by a rubber
band. The rest falls in an unsculptured mass to the small of her back,
framing a sculptured face, set off by eyes of dark emerald green, and finely
arched eyebrows. Dark blue tatooing covers the skin around her right eye,
and disappears into her hair: skin-toned breaks in the blue transform the
work into a knotwork pattern comprised of the Fianna glyph.
She wears an ivory peasant blouse beneath a vest of embroidered green-and-blue
knotwork, and faded blue denim jeans. Over this, her familiar black leather
jacket, three golden hoops in the lobe of her left ear, and a golden ring on
her right ring finger. Her voice is accented by a smooth alto Irish brogue.

[Erik]
The figure - presumably male - stands an inch or two over seven feet, a
hulking cybernetic giant shrouded and encased in gray armor. A few short
whisps of dull black hair cling to a lonely existance on the bald, bare
head. The face is a horror, though, brutish and skeletal, with corpse-pallid
skin sretched drum-tight over bone, the jaw out-thrust and the cheeks
sunken. Both eyes - misaligned and sunk into deep sockets - are a
startlingly vibrant shade of green, but the gaze is flat and unemotional,
and metal gleams dully around the left, implants embedded into the
sickly-looking flesh. Pointed ears and sharp canines are characteristic
Glabro features, but instead of a nose, he has only a pair of gaping holes,
which only emphasizes the skull-like appearance.
The stance - for those who know Erik - is completely alien, the movements
smooth but mechanical. The right arm has been removed from a bit above the
elbow, and some kind of cybernetic interface is sunk into the flesh of the
left forearm.
The voice, when he does speak, is flat and expressionless, an emotionless
baritone with no lilt to it, no music. None at all.

Shea comments, as she returns, "I meant nicely, but that works, too." She
kneels beside the unconscious Metis, mutters a prayer in quiet Irish, and
sets to work carving and prying the left arm's implant up.

Steven, for all his gruff behavior seems honestly squicked as Shea cuts into
his arm. He pointedly studies the entrance to the cave while she goes about
her business.

Blood flows, stark and red against the pallid flesh as the Theurge works to
remove the forearm implant. Lots of blood. But the mule's regenerative
powers - apparently untouched by his 'enhancements' - keep the wound from
becoming life-threatening.

Shea slices, tugs, and probes with the knife and her hands, coating both hands
quite thoroughly with blood. Grimacing now and then, she mumbles, "'fI slip,
I've blood bound myself to the metis. That means..." She plucks out another
wire. "You can't kill him."

Erik doesn't flinch or twitch, probably due to his unconscious state.

Steven's either not paying full attention to what Shea's saying, or he
accepts what she says in silence. Either way he stares carefully towards
the entrance to the cave.

Shea pries a last prong of metal from the muscle nearest Erik's elbow, and
tugs the entire device off Erik's arm with a rather wet sound. The hunk of
metal is tossed toward Steven's feet.

Steven darts his eyes towards the hunk of metal and then bends down to pick it
up, his face blanching slightly. Hopefully, the full effect is lost in the
paler half-moon light.

Erik's flesh starts knitting itself back together in a quiet, businesslike
manner. The smell of blood is thick in the air, and the Metis remains
unconscious.

Shea craws toward Erik's head, murmurs another prayer, and uses the tip of the
knife blade to pry at the implants around the eye itself.

More blood, but the smaller eye-implants come out a bit more easily than did
the one in the forearm, even if they seem attached in the same basic manner.

Steven toys with the implant idly, almost like it was a metal toy, perhaps not
realizing what he's doing fully. He once again stares away from Shea and her
patient.

Shea pitches each eye implant toward Steven's feet, as well. Once she's
finished prying, she takes her knife, and gets up, hands held before her,
gore-covered, like a surgeon, and heads for the way out. "I'll heal him when
I get back, if he needs it," she tells Steven on the way by, then goes to
wash her hands.

In the back of the cave, gored with blood, the smell of it thick in the damp
air, Erik lies quietly, his body going about the business of healing itself.

Steven watches Shea, and his face turns a pale white, as he watches bits and
pieces of the MuleGore drip off her arms. His expressison goes even more
pallid as he notices he's been playing with the other implant idly.
Sickened, he hurries after Shea, and bounds down to lupus and leaps into yon
pool of water.

Shea, kneeling by the pool, manages to be only mildly dampened by the
cannonballing wolf, rather than entirely drenched. At least her hands are
clean. "You all right, Steven?"

Heart-of-Fury paddles around in the middle of the pool for a minute or two,
trying keep himself from losing his lunch. He finally paddles over to the
edge of the pool and shakes himself out. I'm fine. What makes you think I'm
not? He's obviously lying.

Shea fights down a smile. "Nothing, nothing. Just a little cool for a swim, I
think."

Heart-of-Fury snorts. Well, he informs the theurge. I find the temperature
invigorating.

Shea grins openly. "All right. To each his own. I'm for checking on the
computer." She rises, and starts back for the cave.

Heart-of-Fury shakes out again and nods faintly. Very well, he says. I think
I'll just drip dry out here. Wouldn't want to muss your cave.

Back in the cave, the unconscious Metis continues to heal nicely, though it
looks as though scars will remain where the implants were.

Shea mmms. "Stay under the trees. It's warmer there." She disappears into the
cave, to look over Erik, and his wounds. Eamon, too, is given a cursory
inspection, though the theurge does no more surgery.

Heart-of-Fury snorts again and flickers an ear at Shea before he pads off
towards a nearby tree to cozy against. He shakes out one final time and then
floomps down on his belly.

Shea kindles a fire that lights up the cave behind the falls, after piling up
the pried-off pieces of armor at the back of the cave.

[Note: She also wraps Erik up in a blanket. He's still tied up, of
course.]

Erik regains consciousness after about a half-hour or so, perhaps a bit more.
His eyes open again, turning toward Shea, the face still blank of expression.

Heart-of-Fury, after the fire is prepared, actually does come back into the
cave and curls up near it. He looks at Erik curiously as he reawakens.

Shea stifles a yawn. "Go to sleep, Erik."

Erik stirs a bit as he takes stock of the situation and then grows still. His
eyes remain open for a while despite Shea's suggestion.

Heart-of-Fury flicks an ear to Shea, questioningly. Is he better?

Shea shrugs faintly. "Don't know. Maybe that smack on the head and pulling
that shite out of him will help. Probably won't be able to tell til morning,
though. If it works, we can do Eamon, then."

Heart-of-Fury shudders involuntarily, and not because he's cold, either.

Shea smiles one-sidedly. "You can stand guard outside. In case I need you. Why
don't you sleep, too?"

Heart-of-Fury yawns himself, streching his muzzle wide, licking at his
whiskers, before he curls around again and lays his head down over his paws.

Erik remains silently awake for several hours before he closes his eyes again
in repose.

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