Tapestries: Pablo - Sunday, November 05, 2006, 10:20 AM After the adrenaline rush-filled incident at the Bettencourt house, and a lively discussion on the nature of the Litany, and the secluded nature of the Garou, before you know it, you've been dropped off at your home. Cursor only waits a minute, then takes off, to bring the other cubs to the mall. The talk with your dad takes longer than you might have expected, and you've not seen him show so much emotion in a long time, and you end up spending the night at home. It's the next day, mid-afternoon or so, when you finally catch a bus and head over to George's store: "The Shooters Shop," on the city's south side. It's a ride you've taken a hundred times before, but today it seems different. The people on the bus seem more distant, more wary of you, and you look at them in a completely different way now. Maybe it's just your imagination, but... Tony is pleased with the way the meeting with his father went. Maybe it was the way he explained things to him. "Dad, I'm involved with something. I can't tell you what, for your own safety and mine. You just have to believe me when I say it's more important than... than anything." His father pushed for details, threatened him, even raised his hand for the first time ever against him when things got really heated. But Tony hit him back, and hard. Fully expecting to get pummelled, it seemed to make his father take him seriously. Or maybe see that Tony is a man. Something in the way his boy stood there with utter conviction in his face, a face that looked years more mature than when he last saw him. Given his father's nature, a person who, while shell shocked and paranoid, used to look beyond things like nationality and race, he saw his boy had found something real. So they made up, and things were fine. And now Tony is on the bus, feeling... almost light-headed. The biggest concern in his life having been worked through and he came out the other side just fine. He got on the bus feeling that way, in any case. As the blocks pass, he realizes people are either staring at him or pointedly looking away. Weird. It's all surreal, or maybe it's been the last few months that have been surreal. All the same things are different. Even here, in such an ordinary situation, you find your senses ... heightened. You keep looking around, over your shoulder, just in case ... in case of what ... you're not sure. But that's when you have the revelation that what you are acting like... is a soldier. And right then, it's your stop, and you get off the bus, a half block away from the store. Tony suddenly wishes someone were here with him. Bits, or Shay, or even Hope. He feels so tense. Like he's patrolling through a place that may have hostiles or something. Is it his father's years of that shit kicking in, after the catalyst of living with Garou? Probably. He sticks his tongue out at a little kid who stared at him the whole time as he gets off the bus, which promptly sets the child to crying loudly into his mother's arms. Adjusting his backpack, he makes his way over to George's place, intent on buying a really good quality knife. When you do get into the store, you get the same reaction, or at least a similar one. The customers seem more wary of you, keeping half an eye on you as if they expected you to pull out a weapon and rob the place. Is this how soldiers felt when they came back from 'Nam or Iraq? Or maybe how black people feel, all the time. Your thoughts are interrupted though, as George busts out from behind the counter and the customer he was tending to run over to you and give you a great big barrel hug. "Damn, Tony, thought for a while there we'd never see you again!" he laughs! Tony looks pleased to be in this shop again. Usually he was here after hours, talking to George over some root beer about the history of Europe and George giving him the low-down on stuff that wouldn't be found in any official history books. Most of it, he's sure, was just conspiracy stuff, but it was fun. The boy gives a loud glurk as he's picked up like a toy, but he laughs back. "Rr! Heya, George," he grunts, grinning broadly. The customer is staring at them both with wide eyes and tightly shut lips. George laughs again, and after a moment directs one of his employees over to help the customer, then turns back to you, "Come on in the office, I think I still have some Sprecher's in the mini-fridge." He grins and turns, heading that way, obviously expecting you to follow. Tony rolls his shoulders, popping a few bones back into place and grinning still. "Nice," he says as he follows along, waving to the cashier whom he only vaguely knows as Charlene. Ratty looking girl, but she's nice. "So, how's things been, George?" he asks inside the smaller office, unconsciously sniffing at the air a few times. George doesn't really notice your little lupine affectations, it seems. He leans back in his chair, after reaching into the fridge and tossing a root beer for you, and a Miller Lite for himself. He pops the drink open with his thumb, "Oh, business has been all right, up and down. It's been picking up for hunting season and Christmas, of course." He chuckles. "And where have you been keeping yourself? You know, since getting kidnapped." He laughs this off. Tony takes a seat opposite the big man, opening his soda and having a swig. OOoohmmmm. That's good. He hasn't had a carbonated beverage in months. "I've been out... uh..." Scratching at his temple, he frowns a little. "I kind of can't tell ya. I'm with some people, and they're great. They used to know my mom's family." George laughs again, "You can't tell me, eh? That big of a secret." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully, looking around, then leaning forward. "Yer not in trouble, are ya? You know I'd help you or your pop out of any bind you got yerself inta?" Tony looks glum, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I know. My dad's not in any trouble. I'm not in trouble, per se. Of course, you're going to think I am when I tell you what I want," he admits with a wry smile. "I wanted to see if I can buy a good sized knife from you to practice with." He leans back and considers you for a long moment. "Per se, hmm?" he says, frowning. Then he stands, "What do you need it for? Skinning? Fighting? Do you need something that folds away?" Tony puts his soda down. "Well, I need it to practice for fighting," he admits, deciding to be honest when he can be. "Though, I don't know if it should fold. I dunno if a glaive folds or not," he mumbles mostly to himself, frowning. "I guess it'd be better if it didn't fold, though. Less moving parts, less to go wrong." George hmphs. "Okay, I think I know what you need. Be right back." And he turns and walks out of the room, leaving you alone for a few minutes. Tony leans back in the chair, feeling that usual sense of awkwardness he carries lately. Pleased to see people he knows, but sad that he has to lie and tiptoe. Especially to George, whom his whole friendship is rooted in sharing secrets. George returns a few minutes later with a sheathed knife. He pulls it out and puts it on the table. "This is the 7-inch USMC Ka-Bar fighting and utility knife with two inches of serration," he explains, going into natural sales pitch, "It's the same design that served our boys in the Pacific so well back in W W Two, though now it is made of a rust-proof and sharper carbon steel blade, and it's black epoxy coated. Comes with the leather sheath you see here with the Marine Corps logo." Tony sits up straight when George returns, eyeing the knife with hesitation. Knife fighting was one thing his father never showed him. And for good reason, he sees. This thing screams 'deadly, no kids allowed' pretty loudly. It's like having a little bit of Crinos in your homid hand, he thinks with amusement. "That's pretty awesome," he says, leaning close, but not touching it. "So... how much is it?" Pablo (OOC) says, "http://tinyurl.com/ydy5fd" George responds simply: "Fifty-eight, plus tax." He puts his hand on your shoulder. "But if you need it. I mean, need it, need it, you can have it." Tony curls his fingers around the handle and delicately slides it back into the sheath. "Man, George... I wish I could tell you more," he sighs. "But I can't. It sucks." He holds the knife for a minute longer, then gently puts it into his backpack. George nods, placing his beefy hand on your shoulder. He gives you a look like he understands. And maybe he does. I mean, isn't he always going on about those goofy conspiracy theories. If werewolves are real, maybe so are those unmarked helicopters and the mind control orbiting satellites. "I understand. Just, if you can. When you can. Come back, and I'm willing to help, okay?" Tony returns the gesture. "Thanks, George. And I'll be back, now that I'm allowed off bawn, so, we can hang out again. Not as much as we used to, but, you know, now and then." He offers a smile, still glad to see his friend again. George laughs again, his old jolly self, "If you come back wanting a gun, though, you still have to wait two days. ATF is very picky about that sort of things." Then he asks, "Bawn? What's that?" Tony snickers. "Right. I doubt I'll be needing a gun." He then blinks, and his face loses a little colour. "Oh, er, nothing. Just... a place to call home," he offers, smiling lopsidedly. "Don't worry about it. I should get going." George reaches around for another, shorter hug. "Good to see you again. Don't be a stranger. And I trust you to take good care of that blade!" Tony hugs back. "I won't be. And I will take extra care!" He makes his way to the front of the shop, waving back to George. "Thanks again, man!" Your friend gives a wave in return, and heads back to work.