Overview

Participants

Summary

Having caught word of Freya's discovery of waste stored at a warehouse on Wallisville Road, Jean reaches out to one of his contacts, Mitch Powell III, to arrange for the safe disposal of what's there. However, initially, he comes unprepared, and Mitch gives him a list of what he needs to first learn.

So they go to the warehouse and get a grasp of the scope of it all. With Freya as the helpful guide to the warehouse area, who gets the boys access to the warehouse's interior, Jean gets the photos that capture the scale of what a nightmare this is in the mortal realm. Medina gets a snapshot of the spiritual state on the other side - both are terrible.

Part One

(Medina) Mitch Powell is a solidly built man - 20 years of wrestling with dumpsters will of course bulk your physique. And so will a wife that knows how to cook. He's a middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard trimmed close, and the back of his neck and tops of his forearms are a few sun-damaged shades darker than the rosewood rest of him.

He's wearing some jeans, some classic wheat Timberlands, and a button-up shirt. Teresa is not letting this man out the house with no T-shirt like some kind of slovenly hobo. A quietly cynical, careful hustler, and a deeply tired man with a job as demanding as his and his side hustles, but someone's gotta pay for Keisha and Little Mitch's tuition.

He's here, making lemonade at his table with the splenda packets and the extra slices of lemon he'd asked for, while the wait staff lets it slide.

(Jean) Jean comes in. He's dressed sharply, he always is, even if it's informal. Jeans and a button-down shirt with paisley patterns on it. He makes sure to get his food as well, and mentioned to the staff that he has Mitch's check for this one.

Brisket and pulled pork, a sweet and tangy sauce. Fried onion tanglers. Tall glass that mixes the lemonade with Dr. Pepper. Soon, he's over sitting with Mitch at the table.

"Thanks for coming, Mitch," he says. "How are you doing? Family? Work is ok?"

(Medina) Mitch got himself a combo plate, ribs, brisket, burnt ends, hot sausage links.

"Oh, I'm just glad to get past Halloween! Keshia put off her costume to the last minute and so of course we gotta help her put it together the night before Halloween." He shakes his head at whatever that may have been like, then lets a small laugh escape him at the memory: one of endeared, but tested patience.

"Work is work," he supposes, and he ruminates over some of his ribs. He picks up one of those brown paper napkins to make sure that his food's not leaving specks on his moustache, then asks, "What's goin' on with you?"

<OOC> Jean says, "ICly, all I got is Freya telling me there was a warehouse full of stuff. OOCly, I hope that off-camera she got me all she knows about this, which Jean would then ICly know, but I don't OOCly."

<OOC> Medina says, "She doesn't know a lot, herself, either, but the important parts are already slotted in, no? The location, the problem."

(Jean) "I have heard that there is a place with barrels of waste that should not be there. If I get that to you, can we get in, see what it is, what it would take to get that stuff out of there safely and to the proper disposal site..."

He gives a nod, "Good work comes with bonuses, of course. And off the books work comes with off the books bonuses. Enough for you and for any crew you would need on this one."

(Medina) Mitch pauses mid-bite, rib hovering near his mouth, and his eyes flick up to Jean's face. He sets the rib down carefully on his plate, wipes his fingers on that brown paper napkin real deliberate-like, then leans back in his chair with a soft exhalation that might be a laugh but isn't.

"Mm-hmm." He looks around the restaurant - habit, checking who might be in earshot - then back to Jean. His voice drops lower, not quite a whisper but definitely not carrying past their table. "Barrels of waste. That should not be there." He repeats it like he's tasting the words, seeing if they taste like trouble.

They do.

He picks up his drik, takes a long sip, sets it down. Checks his watch even though he ain't timing nothing. "Now see, Jean..." Another pause, rubbing the back of his neck. "When you say 'waste,' that could mean a lot of things. Could mean some paint cans, motor oil, construction debris...That's one conversation. But the way you sitting there and talking about 'proper disposal site' and 'off the books'..."

He leans forward now, forearms on the table. His voice remains that same steady hush, just on the precipice of conversational volume - camouflage in normalcy, not signaling it's worht listening to, not projecting too far past the table neither.

"That sounds like the kind of waste makes a man wonder what exactly he getting himself into. So let me ask you straight, before we go any further - how bad we talking? Because I got Junior graduating in May, Keshia got her braces tightened next week, and Teresa..." He shakes his head. "Man, I can't be explaining to my wife why someone showing up at the house asking questions."

His eyes are steady on Jean's face now. Not hostile, but definitely measuring.

<OOC> Jean says, "Does Freya know exactly what Waste they are?"

<OOC> Jean says, "Or Jean could just have gone there himself as spider form and looked, oif you don't mind? Because I want to know"

You paged (Freya, Jean) with 'Hi Freya!'

From afar, to (Medina, Freya): Jean waves

You paged (Freya, Jean) with 'I hear you looped in Jean - are there any additional details you would have told Jean beyond whatever Freya's already told them?'

From afar, to (Medina, Jean): Freya waves

To (Medina, Jean), Freya pages: Don't think so..

To (Medina, Freya), Jean pages: So not what kind of waste it is? Just that it's bad?

To (Medina, Jean), Freya pages: Freya isn't sure what kind of waste it is.. She just knows its bad and its eroding concreate heh

To (Medina, Jean), Freya pages: I haven't talked to Jean after the meeting at my apt.. so..

You paged (Freya, Jean) with 'OK!'

<OOC> Medina says, "If you would like to go there in spider form yourself, you can do that next, but let's keep the order of operations clear and consistent."

(Jean) "It's eroding concrete, so something bad. But it is not like chlorine trifluoride, since that would already have been way too energetic. It might be like...you know Robocop? When the van crahsed into barrels of toxic sludge that melted one of the bad guys? I think that it is like that. If you want, I can go and make sure." He thinks a moment, "As far as I know, it is not bodies or people." His voice is soft.

(Medina) Mitch's expression doesn't change much, but something does shift in his eyes. He picks up his lemonade, takes another slow sip, sets it down. The silence stretches out juuuust long enough to be uncomfortable, unless Jean fills it.

"Robocop." Flat, no inflection. Then he leans back in his chair, a soft huff of a jaded laugh escaping him with far more experiences than humor. His carob colored gaze flicks past Jean's shoulder for a second, then his eyes come back, gaze level and direct.

"Jean." He pauses as he collects just how he's going to put this. "I'ma be straight with you, because I think you a solid dude. But right now you sitting here telling me you want my help with some barrels you ain't even seen yourself? You talking about movie references and 'I think' and 'if you want I can go make sure'?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you not actually know what you're dealing with, so you're asking me to walk into something blind? Or you do know what you're dealin' with, and just don't want to be straight with me about it?" He picks up a napkin, wipes his hands again even though they're already clean. "Neither one of those makes me feel real comfortable about getting involved."

He glances at his watch. "I got about twenty more minutes before I need to pick up Keisha from band practice. So here's what I need from you: You been to this place? You seen these barrels with your own eyes? You know what's on the labels, what they smell like, how many there are, who owns the property? If the answer is no, then what you need to do is go look at it yourself first, then call me back when you know what you actually asking me to help with. I don't do business on 'I think' and 'maybe.' Not when we talking about something that melts concrete. You feel me?"

He picks up his rib again, but he's watching Jean's face as he sees how the rest of his lunch break is going to go.

(Medina) Mitch's expression doesn't change much, but something does shift in his eyes. He picks up his lemonade, takes another slow sip, sets it down. The silence stretches out juuuust long enough to be uncomfortable, unless Jean fills it.

"Robocop." Flat, no inflection. Then he leans back in his chair, a soft huff of a jaded laugh escaping him with far more experiences than humor. His carob colored gaze flicks past Jean's shoulder for a second, then his eyes come back, gaze level and direct.

"Jean." He pauses as he collects just how he's going to put this. "I'ma be straight with you, because I think you a solid dude. But right now you sitting here telling me you want my help with some barrels you ain't even seen yourself? You talking about movie references and 'I think' and 'if you want I can go make sure'?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you acutally know what you're dealing with, so you're asking me to walk into something blind? Or you do know what you're dealin' with, and just don't want to be straight with me about it?" He picks up a napkin, wipes his hands again even though they're already clean. "Neither one of those makes me feel real comfortable about getting involved."

He glances at his watch. "I got about twenty more minutes before I need to pick up Keisha from band practice. So here's what I need from you: You been to this place? You seen these barrels with your own eyes? You know what's on the labels, what they smell like, how many there are, who owns the property? If the answer is no, then what you need to do is go look at it yourself first, then call me back when you know what you actually asking me to help with. I don't do business on 'I think' and 'maybe.' Not when we talking about something that melts concrete. You feel me?"

(Jean) "I have not been there, so I will go and get the information and get back to you. I got your lunch here, and once I get the information, I will get back to you with the rest of things, and we can make the rest of the arrangements. Is that satisfactory?" He also pulls out a bill to slide over. "For your trouble," he says, as Mr. Franklin is looking up at Mitch.

(Medina) Mitch looks at the bill Jean slides over. There's a long moment where he just looks at it, not touching it yet, his expression unreadable - and not just because of Jean's nature and the compromised lens for empathy that he has. This man's expression genuinely stands in limbo, neither insulted, nor appreciative, a wall, a mask.

Finally, Mitch picks it up, folds it once, tucks it in his shirt pocket. "Mm-hmm."

He takes another bite of his food, chews slow, lets the silence grow as he swallows that bite on his own time. When he speaks again, his voice is still level, and carries a certain distance that wasn't there before.

"Yeah, that's satisfactory," he concludes. He wipes his hands on the napkin again. "You go look at what you got, you come back with specifics. What's on the labels, how many barrels, what kind of condition they in, where exactly it's at. If you can find out who owns the property, even better. All that."

He picks up his lemonade, takes a sip, sets it down. "And Jean? When you call me back, make sure you SEEN it with your own eyes and know what we dealing with. Because next time we sit down to talk business, I'ma need to know I'm talking to somebody who got his facts straight before he picks up the phone."

It's not quite a threat, not quite a warning, but it's definitely a boundary.

"Enjoy your lunch. I'ma head out, pick up my daughter. Less there's anything else." He moves to stands up, hands on the to-go container he's eating out of.

Part Two

(Medina) Jean and company make their drive-by during the humid, hot October day. The neighborhood is coated with that faint stink of burning plastic.

Once he found out about the location, Medina told Jean and Freya both that this neighborhood is a known dumping ground: people abandon cars, construction waste, and hot goods out here, since HPD's presence is apathetic and spotty at best. They don't come unless they're called. In that neglect, the homeless population thrives, and people squat in the warehouses out here - and they smuggle. It's a golden route for moving stuff in and out under the radar thanks to the trucking routes here - the legitimate businesses and the legitimate freight make it all too hard to tell what's real and what's a front.

And, with that information, the group goes to Wallisville Road, which cuts like a nasty scar through East Houston's industrial guts.

A tall, lonely warehouse made of corrugated metal looms three stories over the block, its regiment of grille windows smeared and caked with industrial dirt and neglect where they aren't shattered and smashed in or boarded up. The structure stands silent in a parking lot that spreads like the looming shadow of a sunchoking stormcloud. The skeletons of two abandoned cars and a rusted out transport truck sit in the far portion of the lot, stripped of all their useful parts.

The grounds are surrounded by eight feet of wire fence, fanged with barbed wire, and the gigantic metal gates guarding the property's face speak to the world of cemeteries and institutions. They almost evoke the grim, haunted mansions of cloistered eccentrics, but the rust corrodes their once-was beetle-black finish into the unwelcoming color of dried blood.

The parking lot beyond the perimeter looks empty, cracked asphalt with weeds pushing through like reaching fingers.

As for the neighborhood at large - this warehouse is one of many similar structures - anonymous concrete boxes with roll-up doors and sun-blasted corrugated steel walls. The address matches, but there's no signage, no company name, nothing to distinguish it from the dozen other forgotten buildings on this stretch.

(Medina rolls Perception + Alertness for 5 successes.)

(Jean rolls Perception + Alertness and fails.)

(Freya rolls Perception + Alertness for 2 successes.)

(Freya - You notice when you arrive that the front gate is ajar. It wasn't last time - last time, it was chained shut, hence those kids using the bolt cutters (And of course, you remember the hole in the fence as but one way to get into the property). The chain is there, as well as the padlock, but it's not locked, and the gate is ajar. Ever so slightly.')

(Jean) It's been a drive to get out here, and Jean at least takes pictures of the warehouse, the street signs, so the where of things are established at least. "This is it...do you think it is openable from the inside? How did you get inside to lok at things first, Freya?"

(Freya)

Freya looks at the warehouse from inside the car as they pull up. A shudder runs through her at remembering what happened in there first time she was here. She has been back here since, but it doesn't make what happened here any less unnerving. She gets out the car and lets Jean go about taking his pictures. She tilts her head and reaches out to touches Jeans arm. "Hey... that gate is open.." she says. "It wasn't open before... when I was here last, there was a hole in the fence... thats how we got in. So someone has been here.. " she says with a cautious look to the warehouse.

(Medina) Medina keeps the Toyota Solara they're in moving smooth along the block while Jean snaps photos from that camera of theirs. It's a poor man's Celica, which is itself a poor man's Ferrari.

"I know someone can probably develop these if you don't," he mentions, as he makes a round about the block, passing by the gates as Freya notices. He glances, himself, and he doesn't slow, but his eyes snag on another detail that he calls out. He double-takes when Freya calls out that the gate is open, his attention pushing past and into the lot. "Tire tracks," he mentions, "I think I see tire tracks." When he calls attention to it with a gesture, Jean and Freya both can see what he's talking about: a muddy quartet of dual tire tracks patter their way out of the gate in dirt and debris, along with the rhythmic spatter of something dripping left behind on the asphalt.

The lot is empty of cars - that much is plain to confidently see. "Maybe they were here reecntly. I'd zip in and out fast. Place like this, the security's ... Mostly in taking advantage of how nobody's there, how do you call it -" he says it in Spanish, "Anonymnity."

(Jean) "Todrick can at least," Jean says. "And...ok. So can we get in? You think they left this place unlocked, or a place we can unlock easily? If not..." He looks at them, "If not, I can get in, but it will not be pretty...would need no-one watching from out there. And hopefully no-one yelling from here."

(Freya)

Freya looks to what Medina points out and nods her head at him before hmmming a bit. "I wonder if they are moving the leaking barrels. Seeing that it looks like they were moving something with the spillage there on the asphalt. She looks to Jean and shrugs. "No clue.. we unlocked it from the inside last time, but not sure if they would have relocked. Just.. be careful. The first I was in there, there was something really bad in there. Don't believe your ears if you hear anything.. just.. hurry." she says, you both can tell she is really nervous about being back here again.

(Medina) Medina rounds the car about the property, giving Jean one more pass for photos of the exterior, should he take it. After asking Freya where she found that hole in the fence, he finds a spot of shoulder to pull over on. Kills the car, pops the trunk, gets out, and when he does, his first stop is to make some short work of removing the car's plates with a screwdriver. "Well, in and out. What'd he want, again? Just photos, a count - I'm sure a rough count'll do, no? Freya." He pulls the trunk door open and inside is some supplies: Medina brought some things, Jean brought some things.

Courtesy of the diesel mechanic, he's providing nitrile gloves, some respirators that were meant for paint fumes, and there's a couple of sacks of cat litter in there that he'd mentioned being for soaking up spills in case something's leaking by the time they got there. There's a tool box he hasn't opened, but he'd mentioned something about needing a drum key or a socket wrench. Then there's Jean's test kit and whatever else he brought in there. He gestures at the stuff, inviting Freya and Jean both to some PPE and the goods they brought.

"What was really bad in there?" Medina asks Freya, as he pulls off his license plate to toss into the trunk.

(Freya)

Freya looks between the two of you. "The first time we went in there... there was something in there.. " she tells them. "Something not of this plane.. Talking with others, they think it was a bane.. so just... just be careful. We fought it the first time, but I am not certain it was destroyed.. I think we just kind of scared it off. But its not joke.. " taking some PPE and anything that would keep them safe from the crud that was in those barrels. She also offers to carry anything that needs to be carried.

(Medina) Once the trio gets onto the other side of the fence, they'll see that what was once a bustling storage facility for commerce has fallen into ruin: the warehouse itself has been scoured by the elements, its walls oxidized and covered with layer upon layer of grime and graffiti, rusty patches like splattering stains on a slaughterhouse floor.. You can see that the structure's metal walls almost seem deteriorated enough that a hard shove could send the whole complex tumbling down, but truly, it's more of the vibe than the reality. The employees-only doors have metal crossbars with heavy locks to keep anyone from getting in. The bay doors are all closed down, and while they bear no obvious barricades, the way theyre shuttered still bodes flatly unwelcoming.

You see no movement. You would expect something: racoons, the rustle of birds, a rat? Something. But there's nothing. Just the expanse. And as you focus, that faint stench of burning plastic blooms here - or rather, swells like a bruise. Along with it the unsavory smells of human waste and overripe refuse. Trash is piled up against the sides of the warehouse, not in bags, just accumulated chaos: weather-ruined and soured clothes, a shoe, broken bottles, shattered furniture, things beyond recognition. No immediate danger, not on this side of the fence. Within, your instincts say, is entirely another story, but you'll have to go in to see.

(Jean, when you look for a way to get into the warehouse proper, like extra ways, your eyes catch on an overturned dumpster that rests against a wall under a window that looks like it's been boarded over multiple times. A few of these boards look like they could be moved or pried back to allow entrance to the warehouse itself. There are some holes and gaps closer to the building's foundation, big enough for a cat or raccoon, or even a HORRIBLE TIDE OF SPIDERS, to slip in.)

(Jean) "He wants to know how many, and what. So what's on the labels. So pictures are better than notes or memory. Using all of them together is even better." And he does have a notepad and pencil. "The rest...I can try getting samples of whatever, but it might be best to leave that for professionals."

He doesn't have PPE, certainly not any dedicated to him, but what spider is unable to resist toxins. So he goes closer, looking at things, and then points at the dumpster. "All right...it looks like there are some holes here in the wall, or you can get the boards off and in." He looks at them, "I can get through this. Want to get the boards off and we all go through? Or want me to unlock from the inside?"

(Freya)

Freya moves in through the hole in the fence, donning what Medina brought to try and keep them safer she shakes her head a bit. "There were alot.. " she says to Jean. "I couldn't tell you how many. " she sighs. "The labels in there are not real clear. You can try and get pictures of them, but none them outright what whats in them.. and so good luck with getting any hard info on whats in the barrels." she says to him before glancing around. "I am sure me and Medina can pry some of that stuff off, but it might be less obvious if you could sneak in and unlock it from the inside. " she hehs a bit.

(Medina rolls Stamina + Primal Urge vs 7 for 2 successes.)

(Medina) Medina shuts the trunk once everyone's got things. He shoves some gloves in his back pocket and he puts the respirator on, but loose around his neck, not /on/. Also on his person is a claw hammer and a wrench, both of which he has gripped parallel in one hand, the other free. He listens to Jean, and he lets himself onto the property via the hole in the fence, not trying to be stealthy, but not like he's yelling and announcing himself, either. Just a dude poking around where he doesn't belong in a neighborhood where nothing does, anyway.

"Hm?" He looks about - when Jean points out the boards, he sizes up the task, then he makes his move. He hands Freya the claw hammer, then moves in himself. He looks over his shoulder and when he sees it's really just them, he pauses to listen at the boarded up window for just a moment. After that moment passes in silence, he upnods to Freya to prompt her to help him out. His own form swells to Glabro, his dedicated clothes adjusting from the sudden change in stature, such that he can leverage those heavy, quasi-clawed fingers and the extra strength in getting his half of the boards removed.

(Freya rolls Strength vs 5 for 2 successes.)

(Medina rolls Strength vs 6 for 1 success.)

(Jean) Jean looks between the two of them, but once the window is open, he will get through. Easier if he can just get in, without needing the bulky PPE. And so he'll go through the hole that's nade.

(Medina) Freya and Medina's work is harsh and quick and a little loud - snap, scrape goes the wood. Hopefully the Ragabash was right about being quick and direct as a good play.

The harsh Texas sun cuts through the faint little gap of the rollup doors like a scalpel, carving a wedge of white-hot brilliance across the concrete floor before the warehouse's darkness swallows it. The contrast is brutal: outside it's pushing 90 degrees and inside is a catacomb, a space which reveals itself in sickly half-tones.

Concrete floors cold as a crypt. Metal walls the color of filth and tetanus rise above and around you, caked in graffiti, everywhere: names, dates, crude drawings, phone numbers, tally marks scratched into brick with keys or glass or fingernails, and a nessage smeared in... Something. It says, 'NOT ALONE'.

The smell is the first thing to strike - and it makes Medina put that damn respirator on after his stature relents to its natural, Homid form with an, "Hijole!"

That burning plastic smell, eye-watering, throat-tightening, thick enough to taste, mixed with something organic and rotting underneath.A gallery of overhead windows up on the rooftop, several smashed in, thick with grime and years of industrial residue, offer Jean a way out in a pinch that he's of course unlikely to be cahsed through.

Dust motes swirl in the shafts cutting down from above, thick enough to see, and they catch in your throat when you breathe. Fluorescent fixtures hang from the ceiling. Dead, corroded husks hanging from their chains. Without that artificial flicker Freya remembers, the space feels less haunted but somehow more abandoned.

This warehouse is a cathedral of industrial decay that stretches back a hundred feet, and the daylight - weak as it is - shows you every detail of the rot.

The graffiti on the walls isn't just random tags. In daylight you can make out layers of it, years of it, messages written over messages. Some of it's been there so long the paint's faded to ghost-pale.

The pallet racks cast skeletal shadows across the floor.

Abandoned forklifts - someone's been cannibalizing them for parts. Recent tool marks on the rusted bolts, obvious missing pieces.

Paper trash and broken glass everywhere, but the pattern of it tells a story: cleared paths where someone's been walking regularly. Fresh footprints in the dust.

To the right is a gallery of offices: sad, cheap partitions that were probably falling apart even when this place was operational. The doors to that area are open.

Above is a catwalk - the same catwalk Freya remembers death descending from. Those grated metal walkways are more visible now, and you can see the rust isn't just surface - in places the metal's eaten through completely. The railings sag where bolts have corroded away.

And then the barrels. Even from the doorway, you can see them now: fifty-five gallon industrial drums in a forest green, stacked in loose rows. The daylight catches their hazmat labels.

(Freya)

Medina and her get the board pulled off the window and she looks between you two. If your both going in there... i'll stay out here and keep watch.. if someone or something don't look right out here.. I'll whistle so we can get the hell out of here." she tells you both. You can tell she don't want to be here... and she sure as hell don't want to go back inside again. "Just.. be careful and be quick.." she says with real concern.

(Medina rolls Gnosis vs 9 for 1 success.)

(Jean) "All right," Jean says. Emotionless, almost robotic. "Let me get pictures in here. Describe things. Write them down. But this just looks, and smells....it is burning plastic. A lot. There are forest green 55-gallon drums. I am getting closer. The catwalks are...bad. If we go in, you cannot trust them."

He steps closer to the barrels, taking pictures of them to get developed, and trying to get to where he can see any label. "I am not familiar with this color of drum, what might be inside. Trying to see the labels now." Calling out what he's doing, hoping they hear him

(Jean and Freya roll Perception + Alertness for some successes.)

(Medina) When Freya looks in, the first thing that stands out to her in the daylight that she didn't see before: scratches. Deep gouges in the metal of the emergency exit door, four parallel lines raked downward like claw marks, but too shallow. The Get Kinfolk is all too familiar with claw marks, this is something more horrible: these are fingernails. Human fingernails, torn down to the quick and beyond, leaving rust-brown crescents of dried blood in the grooves. Frantic, overlapping, carving through layers of old paint and graffiti.

Some of them form shapes. Tally marks, maybe? Or just the mindless scraping of someone trying to claw their way through brick because the door wouldn't open...

When Jean approaches the barrels, one thing that comes up is a blood trail. It doesn't run straight, it staggers. Dark smears on the concrete, handprints where someone dragged themselves forward, then a gap where they must have crawled or been dragged. The pattern loops back on itself in places, like whoever left it was confused, disoriented, or being herded. The prints of blood are days old, oxidized to the color of rust, but in the dim light they could be fresh. The trail leads to a storage alcove near the chemical barrels, then tops, no body, no conclusion.

And as for the barrels: he sees them, their Biohazard trefoils. Up close, not all of them are that forest green: some are yellow, black and red. Each bear the Hazmat diamond. A few of the barrels are leaking. Slow drips, barely noticeable, but the concrete beneath them is pitted and discolored, eaten away by whatever's inside.

But then there's one more thing: both Jean, up close, and Freya, from a distance, can notice the same thing in two ways. For Freya, it's the /lack/. Is the light playing tricks on her eyes? Or does it seem that there are fewer barrels? Jean sees empty ring-stains, dust patterns yielding cleaner concrete in neat circular footprints, a story where barrels used to be.

(Jean) Jean takes pictures of each different label with different markers. Some biohazard. Some other hazmats. But each one needs to be gotten. "This is...bad. Something was in here bleeding," he calls out. "Blood trail vanishes. Whatever left it was taken elsewhere...." And then..."Some barrels taken away! Probably those tire tracks we saw out front."

(Medina) Meanwhile, Medina mutters, "Well, watch over my shoulder a second." He stares into the space, and as he does, his gaze grows pensive, full of intent, concentration. His head ever so slightly tilts as he squints and tries to peer across the veil. The faint glow from his eyes, from the efforts of piercing the Gauntlet with his perceptions, is mostly swallowed by the sunlight, but the effect is nevertheless obvious, in how it shifts the color of his eyes to a more amberlike hue from that inner light.

Just as Jean announces the blood -- a detail lost on Medina as he drowns his senses elsewhere -- he sucks in a breath of surprise. His eyes widen, his lip curls, and a nearly inhuman growl rises from his throat.

(Freya) Freya knows what the claw marks are from, she almost knows where the blood is from too. She shakes her head at remembering and really doesn't want too. She doesn't look back in there again. She has had more then her fill of this place and really don't want to be here. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, before trying to calm herself. This place gives her the creeps. She notices some of the barrels are missing too. She nods her head a bit to Medina as he seems to zone out but when she hears his growl she only guess that its not good.

(Jean) Whatever is out there, Jean is trusting Medina to handle it, as he makes sure to snap pictures of the different things. ANd when he's finally done. "All right. Coming back out! Window or not?!" ONce the info is had, it's time to get out.

(Medina) Medina's eyes fall shut as revulsion and contempt take over his whole being, the Rage thrashing in his chest, white hot anger sparking his vision.

CLANG!! Medina takes out his anger on the wall in one thoughtless, savage burst that cracks his knuckles. "Get your fucking pictures and figure out -exactly- where you're staging that fucking waste," he growls. "Those /need/ cleansing," he says, his voice hate and venom. He jumps off of the dumpster and starts pacing to burn off energy. He barely has his shit together. He doesn't answer - up to Freya to be the Sane Individual here, Medina's busy dealing with his REALLY BIG FEELINGS.

(Jean) Right. That's it. Jean starts to get things back and get out now. "All right. In that case...why not get the stuff to do it /here/? Now? Then move them?"

(Freya) Freya glances back inside inside and calls out to Jean. "Lets get out of here.. " she calls inside before her eyes go back to Medina. She seems concerned about how quickly Medina got upset, but she knew this please wasn't a good. "I don't know if its a good idea to stick around right now.. " she tells Jean. She looks back to Medina again, she wishes she knew how to help calm him. Or at least get him to not be so upset, but.. yeah.. she don't wanna get in his way right now, unless she has too. She isn't sure what to do, really, but she does know that she don't want to be here anymore.

(Medina) "What?" Medina whips around and stares at the man with all the tested patience. "What the fuck did you say?" Like he's Joe fucking Pesci or something. Really, he's just coming down from the adrenaline and simultaneously didn't hear him and somehow thinks his failure to hear Jean is *Jean's* fault and not his own emotional regulation issue. He reaches into his jeans pocket and just SHOVES his car keys into Freya's hands. Doesn't explain himself, but, yeahhh, a Garou this pissed *probably* shouldn't be behind the wheel...

(Jean) He gets out the window, "Medina, panicking does not help. Be calm." And just by being this close, he is a calming presence. At least to Medina. Fear, panick, anything fades to calm. "All right. We get out of here, and...we need to have a designated area for cleansing I think. I will make some calls and figure out a good place. Or if one of you would like to, I can look into records and see if I can get the owner of the building."

(Jean uses Alter Mood on Medina to squash his panic.)

(Freya) Freya looks to Jean. "Already got someone looking into finding out who owns the place." she tells him and glances to Medina again, watching him carefully. She is normally not a nervous or fearful person, but this place.. this place creeps her out and she doesn't like it. It just out right feels bad here and it bothers her, not like it does Medina but she knows its got good. "We going to have to really get some big guns in here. Hence why I said we should talk to the Elders if we can." she says and looks around the place again. "I got pictures of my own, Jean.. I will make you copies.. " she says, holding the keys to the car.

(Medina) "Panicking!?" Medina's accent slips out. He spends so much time editing himself to sound like English is his first language, but nay: Medina is full-on HOW DO I REACH THESE KEEEDS mode. "Who the fuck is PANICKING, Jean, I'm FUCKING PISSED," he hisses, his glare flaring at Jean. If looks could kill, then by God, that's a .45-70 fucking buffalo rifle glare right there.

"Do you know how much barrels that is!?! We gonna need DAYS, the whole sept, to clear this! Look at this!"

Woosah, Medina, Woosah. As Jean steps into his proverbial orbit, that fire starts to die. "I gotta get my fucking truck out here, and I gotta take these -- " As the Rage's bite on him dullens, he blinks, confused - and he hits Jean with a look of confused betrayal. That's what he's got left now - confusion and betrayal.

"Did you... " He turns around and looks over his shoulder, then back at Jean. His thoughts race - but at least now there's clarity. And he packs in that accent. "That's so many barrels. Do you know where this guy's going to dispose of them? It's not just a dangerous chemical, there's spiritual corruption in there, loads of it. The logistics - we need to make sure we're not just moving the problem to a new space. I have the capacity to move it, but it's /not/ subtle, we'd have to arrange it, we'd need to coordinate. I can't do it by myself. None of us can. Now let go of me."

Of course, Jean's hands are not /on/ Medina, but he seems to attribute this feeling to some kind of hold all the same.