Participants

Ajax

Summary

Afton Golthwaite, long-suffering Silver Fang kinfolk and outreach NGO coordinator, is trying to discuss a deadly chemical cover-up and the disappearance of eight workers, flustered from Ajax's dedication to the idea that this corruption is actually the work of an evil fantasy roleplaying game corrupting souls. Afton drags Ajax back to reality and shoves a suspicious security job posting in his hands and practically gift-wraps an infiltration plan for the Silver Fang. Ajax eventually agrees and contemplates seeking out help while outwardly pretending he's above it all.

Log

(Medina - 06:13 PM) It's a lovely evening! One Afton Goldthwaite has been trying to get Ajax to understand, amid a walk along the beach, the implications of the headlines. It's been a mobile conversation, given the sensitive nature of the discusion. The headlines themselves and the content of the newspaper clippings scrapbooked his notebook is not the sensitive information. That much is all over the Houston Chronicle and other journals. Rather, it's what the implications mean to the Garou Nation, what the Silver Fang kinfolk sees between the lines. Afton is a man in his late thirties and he has a successful career behind him, and normally, he'd smile upon his money, his land, his wife, his kids -- but in this moment, he could /not/ be more pissed that of all the Silver Fangs to have won the lottery of the one-in-ten Spiritual Inheritence of the Wolf, it's this gormless, no-brain, no-talent /assclown/ Ajax Best.

THe gold accent of the Mont Blanc pen that he fidgets with in order to restrain the way he'd prefer to pace glints momentarily in the light. He catches ihmself, then slides it into the spiral with a measured precision that is the only remaining outward indicator of his controlled frustration.

"...Now, I realize you've been frightfully busy with your various... endeavors, but perhaps you might spare a moment to consider the optics here? Eight workers, all from what one might charitably call "working families" -- simply vanishing before this unfortunate explosion. The company's response has been to claim these gentlemen were mere contractors with no official records. How /convenient/." He stares at Ajax pointedly to see if he's at least picking up /that/.

"Of course, I'm sure it's merely coincidence that these particular workers were all handling experimental chemicals, and that their families - bless their hearts - are now facing such dreadful financial hardships. No life insurance, you understand, since the company won't acknowledge the men ever existed. Such a pity when paperwork becomes so... complicated. When corporations can simply erase inconvenient people, well, it does rather suggest a certain systemic approach to problem-solving, doesn't it?" ooc I dont know if that fetish earing buzzes in the presence of /sarcasm/ but technically, "I'm sure it's merely coincidence" IS a lie

(Ajax - 06:29 PM) Ajax puts his hands on his hips and stops walking for a moment, looking a little nonplussed, bemused perhaps, perhaps even a little lost, and just slightly miffed that he has had to come all the way back around to his initially dismissed proposal. After staring a couple daggers at Afton, he reaches out with an open hand and slaps the back of his knuckles into the open palm a couple of times for emphasis. "Listen, to me, Goldthwait! I obtained -critical evidence-, not so long ago, that a small number of people, all from similar walks of life to the one you're describing, but otherwise unrelated, were in -secret gatherings." He raises his shoulder and a finger up in the air over his head, bent at the elbow. "And it is -clear- to me that the nature of this association is a cursed devilry simulation game called Durmstrang and Dewgongs! I came upon reams of sheets that concerned a fellow that I saw with my own eyes was corrupted in his very soul...and we performed a sacrament rite that cleansed him! Now, maybe the corporation is forcing them to play, which to me sounds hellish, some kind of sick and twisted experiment to see how long someone can waste their time rolling dice to see how big their fake muscles are and pretending to be a magic nuklavee on a quest to depose Jesus Christ from his holy throne...but I can't understand why you think that's...that's..."

And here he throws up his hands. "Irrelevant!"

(Medina - 06:42 PM) Afton ... finds himself staring at Ajax for a long, long, crystalline moment of absolute silence. The sort that precedes either laughter or violence. In fact, as he screams behind the mask of corporate patience, he envies the person he was about thirty seconds ago. His hand comes up, and he pulls down his tortoise-shell bifocals, cleaning them on his button up shirt with deliberate, mechanical precision.

"Ajax." The Kinfolk puts his glasses back on. It's a cruel, horrible space to be: faced with not just stupidity, but such dangerous stupidity, that can turn into nine feet of righteous fury. Derision is not an option, and so he must drink from the well of patience. How many times can he draw from it? His eyes flit off toward the sky and the swell of the gibbous moon, standing out now even before dark. He looks back at the Silver Fang.

"Ajax. Let us entertain that notion. That I do not agree with. But let us presume that it is true. That the greatest threat facing working-class Latino families is apparently... recreational fantasy gaming. It is still the case, that otuside of that, they are working for a company producing experimental chemicals that were literally eating through flesh. That there is a corporate conspiracy to erase the employment records of the missing people. Now. Tell me. When you performed this 'sacrament rite,' did you happen to notice any unusual... physical changes in your cleansed individual before performing it? Perhaps involving his skin? His bone structure? Anything that might suggest exposure to something more substantial than twenty sided dice and imaginary wizards? Because those eight missing men, who /do not/ include Omar, mind you, /their/ families are quite certain they weren't playing games, Ajax! They were handling XK-47. /And now they're gone/."

(Ajax - 06:47 PM) The Silver Fang stands there in stark silence, his eyes darting as he internally searches through the chasms of his memory that Afton is inviting him down. Visceral memories of Omar, whom he helped save his own soul -- no, of course Afton couldn't understand the signficance of that, nor was he meant to - and of the miserable sloughing off of pustules and weeping sores, literal poison skin and steaming spit. His lips parted as he thought through all of the more mundane evidence that was probably causally linked to the illegal motorist's cursed condition.

"I may have made a few small, logical leaps," he tentatively admits, his voice very small. "That anyone could have done."

(Medina - 07:02 PM) As Afton watches this man mentally thrash about for answers, the breath he levels in and out is intended to be meditative, but too deliberate to be called such. "Yes, Ajax. Small logical leaps," he tells the ambulatory loaded weapon. "That anyone could have done." Pause.

"So now that we've established that Omar's condition was likely caused by exposure to industrial chemicals, perhaps we might consider what happened to eight other men who were handling the same substance. Men who, unlike Omar, didn't have the benefit of 'divine intervention,' and whose families are still waiting for answers while Smith International pretends they never existed."

He opens up that journal that he forgot he was holding in the wake of holding onto his last nerve and reminding himself that calling a Garou what he'd like to so close to the full moon may very well end not just painfully, not just permanently, but believably narrated by Werner Herzog.

"Now. If /I/ were Garou, but unfortunately for me, that honor went to someone else -- if I were Garou, I might peer into the Umbra to investigate the Smith International facility and see what's really happening in the spirit world there. If /I/ were Garou, I would walk through that facility and channel the Spirits to immediately identify anyone who isn't fully human. But I'm /not/..."

He opens up the notebook, paging through it, and finds what he wants to show Ajax, and sets about to essentially trying to aim a cannon by politely suggesting which direction it might consider pointing. "But enough about me. Look at this. It looks as though they're already recruiting replacements. Eighteen dollars an hour for 'night shift security,' with 'hazard differential' pay and the rather ominous requirement for 'strict confidentiality.' How fascinating that they need armed guards for what's supposedly just an industrial cleaning facility. And note the emphasis on 'confined spaces' and 'protective equipment' - almost as if they're expecting their new hires to encounter something... /unpleasant/."

He hands the notebook over to show Ajax the Smith International job posting: "The timing is exquisite. Eight workers vanish, Building 7 explodes, and suddenly they're desperately hiring security personnel who must sign comprehensive NDAs. Now, I'm certainly not suggesting that someone with your particular... talents... might find it illuminating to see exactly what sort of 'security work' they're so desperate to fill," he /suggests/. "Heaven knows what a person with enhanced senses might discover about their operations. But it does seem rather convenient that they're practically begging for applicants, doesn't it?"

(Ajax - 07:10 PM) Ajax accepts the notebook carefully as it's handed to him, flipping it open and dual-threading his perusal of the documentation, and the verbal explanation from the beleaguered Afton. He licks his thumb and flips through a couple of pages, his eyes darting across the material and scanning it for anything he's not hearing. He licks his lips, his brow furrowed as his expression darkens the more the bleak picture is put together for him.

His eyes dart up under his eyebrows, growing still and looking over the notebook warily at Afton, as if trying to parse the hidden meaning. Finally, he ventures a question. "You are not just trying to make me get a job, Afton Goldthwaite -- are you? I will know if you're lying."

(Medina - 07:18 PM) Afton lets Ajax take the notebook. And hee watches the man flip through pages. When he sees that Ajax is reading it, he gives him a moment in silence to concentrate on the words. And in that moment where he's secure that Ajax is weeding through the print, his upper lip twitches in contempt as the mask takes a moment to loosen for air lest it shatter later. Then he smooths it down, blinking serenely as he meets the man's eyes.

The question catches him off guard and a guffaw escapes him. "What? No!" And it isn't even a lie. "Ajax, to have a man like you in the workforce --" and then he QUICKLY staples on an addendum: " -- Because of the Rage -- well, it's simply not realistic! You're secure through the family investments. I am simply telling you what is happening, and what I see. I would /adore/ for you to investigate this situation further, because /I/ am no Garou, I can't check out what spiritual reflection the facilities might have, and if that explosion is but the first of a series I certainly would not be able to survive it like a warrior of Gaia could."

"Eight families are suffering, Ajax," he adds. "And your experince with Omar is something /I/ believe to be connected. Something unnatural is happening at those facilities. And you - frustrating as you may be - are the only person I know who has both the supernatural capabilities, --" a brief pause, one the socially adept would note as one of masked anguish and/or despair, "-- and the tribal authority to effectively do something about it."

(Ajax - 07:37 PM) Ajax raps his knuckles on the back of the notebook then and hands it back to Afton as he straightens up and arrogantly starts walking again, his tone airy and dismissive now. "Well, you'd said they weren't related before, but it seems you've changed your tune. Glad to see you've come around at least partways. I believe you've struck on a very important avenue of attack, one I fully intend on following up on. Yes. I will apply to this security job in an attempt to infiltrate, and discover the truth about these missing families. I'll sign the nondisclosures, and confirm with a philodox that lying like this won't tarnish my honor -- or..."

The terrible thought that he might be horribly out of his depth began to weigh on his confidence like an unfamiliar specter. He was certain he didn't need his help. And didn't want to see him anyway. But...that lingering doubt. "...I suppose it wouldn't hurt to consult a knowledgeable wastrel and let him appraise me of the wiser ways of being a corporate-compromised slimeball. I can just ask a few questions on how best to get my application accepted, and then be rid of him..." Poor Afton had no idea who he was talking about, but he was thinking of Jeff, the Glass Walker, and he was just having a crisis of faith wrestling with his supreme confidence and the need to not look like a fool.

(Medina - 07:45 PM) Afton watches an interesting gallery of expressions: from confused puppy to arrogant mastermind in the span of what, five seconds? But indeed, he has no idea of the Glass Walker Ragabash that Ajax has in mind. "Yes, well... I'm delighted that you've... come around... to seeing the connections. Keep that," he tells Ajax, of the notebook. "For your convenience." And what Afton suspects to be an upsettingly goldfishlike memory.

He pauses as Ajax mentions consulting someone. It clearly catches Afton's attention. "Well. See to it that such an individual has the discretion to match their expertise in corporate malfeasance. The philodox consultation is quite prudent. Honor is, after all, the foundation upon which all Silver Fang endeavors rest. Still, if you're going to infiltrate a facility that's already demonstrated a willingness to make people disappear..." He fixes Ajax with a pointed look. "Perhaps it would be wise to ensure your consultant understands the gravity of the situation."

The Silver Fang's earring bristles just so as Afton says, "And while I have every confidence in your capabilities," -- and then it falls still -- "having someone who understands corporate culture could prove invaluable. Just do try to vet them properly, won't you? We can't afford any loose ends in a matter this delicate." Afton takes out a Motorola cellphone from his briefcase that could be used as a blunt weapon. "Now I need to get some work done," he says, and he doesn't even really do anything with the cellphone, it's just - the fucker is using it like a prop and a bluff to get away from Ajax while looking important while figuring the dude wouldn't know any better because phones look important. Short of being told to wait, off he goes.