"Oh." You consider this. "I thought lots of people got shot at on American soil, though. I mean, besides werewolf people. Just, regular people. And regular wolves." You consider this for a bit longer, and add, conscientiously, "Regular everyone. This country's a bit of a hazard zone."
You snort. "You've got a point there. But knowing there's gun crime is different from being actively hunted by a terrorist organization. Dudes are doing guerilla warfare on us. I thought I left that behind overseas but nope! So yeah, my mom's gonna flip her shit."
You frown. "I, er, not to argue with your superior military education, but, I— I don't think you can just go around calling anyone who shoots at you a guerrilla terrorist. It's not— it's not accurate. I mean. There's opportunistic game hunters. And there's dedicated sport hunters. And there's idiots with rifles who'll have a go at anything on four legs that wanders by. And there's werewolf hunters and there's werewolf werewolf hunters and then you have— I don't know, vampires with a grudge, or selkies who found some old mines and rigged up a trebuchet for kicks, or even other families who went a bit 'round the twist, and somewhere in there are the religious types who do, I suppose, want to actually terrorize and have wars and so forth, and I suppose you could call them terrorists. But. Er. It's not like you can just automatically conclude, 'oh I'm a soldier in a war so anyone who takes a shot at me is on the other side of the same war,' that doesn't, to me, seem...right. You did leave your terrorist guerrilla warfare organizations overseas." You realize you're sort of babbling on, and tuck your nose back under Bel's arm, abashed. "But. Er. Should I.... should I apologize to your mother? I really am tremendously sorry you've been caught up in all this. It's not at all fair."
Downstairs, Reginald Aspera has made it back to Alex's home, trotting quietly from cover to cover. In his jaws he holds a horrible sandwich composed of two wallets and a man's pale, gnawed-off hand, which he occasionally puts down in order to lick his wounds clean, so as not to leave a blood trail. He scratches furtively at the back door to be let in, his ears twitching at every little noise. He looks a good deal like his son, though grayer around the ears and flanks, and his muzzle has gone white all the way up to his eyes.
"Apologize to my mom for saving my life? You got hit on the head, didn't you?" You gnaw his ear in a way your instincts tell you conveys a sort of fond annoyance. "None of the rest of it's your fault. So shut your face."
Alex has been listening for just such a signal, and lets Reginald in right away. "Thank God you're all right," he says as he locks the door. "All three kids are -- well, alive and stable, in any case. Sergeant Pancho appears to be a wolf now. Were you followed?"
Aspera shakes his head, though not confidently. He paws the fridge open and sets the hand on a clear bit of shelf, then goes and hops on to a kitchen chair, to spread the wallets across the table and peer nearsightedly at the IDs. KILLD 2, SAFE 4 NOW, he taps out on the table top, for Alex, when he realizes that he hasn't understood a thing Aspera's said in wolfish. His signalling voice is fast and choppy, impatient. GET MY CARD.
Alex produces it in short order, and sets his gun on the counter so he can get out his phone. He holds phone and card up questioningly, gets a nod, and dials.
After three rings the other side answers. "Hi there!" It's a friendly sounding teenage girl with a completely neutral american accent. "What's up, who's this?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Reginald Aspera," he begins, and waits to be prompted; he has no clue how secure this public line is, or what Aspera wants told to whom.
"Oh shit, is he dead or a wolf? Or did you mean you've got him hostage? If you've got him hostage, we're not paying the ransom. He probably told you we don't pay ransoms. That is because: we do not pay ransoms." There's a pause. "Also you should probably untie him and apologize."
"Er, no, he's a wolf. Excuse me." He moves the phone away from his mouth. "Aspera, if you don't want me to babble the entire situation to this nice young lady, Morse code is your friend."
Aspera laughs—a process that's mostly tongue and tail—and taps out, LINE SECURE. TELL ALL. The girl, meanwhile, is saying, "Oh, okay, is he in trouble? Look, who is this, how'd you get mixed up with Rex? Are you guys in trouble? Look, you sound old, do you know what skype is?" Aspera wags his tail at that. VIDEOCONFERENSEN...CE...S, he taps, his breezy amusement fading into seriousness the further along in the word he gets. ASK. FOR. CAV...AL...RY, he taps out, with grave deliberation.
"Well, which is it, a videoconference or the cavalry?" Alex says exasperatedly. "Reg, honestly, you need to think out your communication standards before this sort of thing happens." He sighs. Into the phone, he says, "Miss, a videoconference sounds like the solution, but let me explain things while we get to my computer. Watch out going through the living room, it's all windows on the lake side," he adds to Aspera. And then it's simply a matter of giving a terse report of the situation to a girl who sounds much too young for her post, despite not actually knowing most of what went on, incorporating Aspera's terse and impatient morse interruptions, while at the same time sneaking through his own house without presenting an easy target to any possible snipers, despite the house being pretty much entirely glass. Piece of cake.
Aspera's got his ears back and his lip just a little raised as he slinks after Alex. He's not used to working with people who don't understand wolfish, or can't at least get by in his Agency's particular argot, or structure their own damn questions conveniently. Communication standards, my hairy ass, he mutters to himself. You try to spell when you left your bloody college education in your other fucking pocket. When the computer's open and the videoconference is set up, the other side of the line blinks on to a gaggle of heads: an young indian girl, a younger pasty-white boy, and three wolves. There's a large, mature red wolf, a skinny yearling red wolf, and a significantly larger skinny yearling grey wolf. "Hi, we're the tech department," the human girl with the perfect American accent says. "And interns." The two yearling wolves stop wagging their tails at that and look betrayed. The adult red wolf grins. Aspera and the wolves begin to converse as best as they can over video, which involves a lot of exaggerated huffing and bouncing, while the boy and girl look increasingly annoyed. The boy says, finally, "Okay, so, to sum up— no we don't care about shipping right now— is that you guys need a mission assist to clean up a cel of totally indiscriminate werewolf hunters, size unknown, location unknown?" Aspera goes "Hrofl," and sort of twists his head around. The other red wolf goes "Wurp!" excitedly, and all the wolves begin to wag again. The girl says, "What? really? A hand? Haha, sick. Okay, I'll get some tracking spells drawn up. Wisconsin— no, Michigan? Is Michigan a state or a city? Minnesota, okay. We'll be there by tonight. Your tonight. Expect about four— four, guys, you're interns— agents, three for the mission and one to take you and the noncombatants to a safe house for the full moon. Rex, are you in on this one?" Aspera thinks it over for awhile, then nods decisively. "Cool. Okay, you, ol— uh, American guy. Can we have your address?" She and the boy write a bunch of stuff down on post-it notes. The yearling grey wolf steals a pencil and chews it, while the yearling red wolf pretends very hard that she doesn't care. "Any questions before we close the line?" The boy thinks to ask Alex.
"Well, yes, because I don't speak wolf, so I have literally no idea what's going on. Where are you taking my son, what do I tell the local police, and who's going to liase with the Air Force? If it's me, I'm going to need a contact in your organization. Preferably one over thirty, who speaks Government Bullshit fluently."
The boy laughs sadly. "You have no idea how much I would like to not speak wolf. Okay, so—" the older red wolf interrupts. "—okay, so, Henrietta wants to know what kind of plane you fly, but she's not going to get to know that, because it's not actually relevant, is it, Henrietta, because the agents will be taking interspace transit to get to America and anyway you're not coming." Henrietta closes her jaws over his neck and goes grrr. The boy continues, unperturbed, "I absolutely promise you, sir, that the agents who show up will be intelligent, professional, and bipedal. It's too close to the moon to send most of our werewolves after werewolf hunters, they go full retarded, it's a fucking mess. We work for the mundane Interpol, mostly, so we should be able to cruise right in and preempt most interested law enforcement agencies who want to stick their noses in. I'll make a note that anyone going's got to be able to throw their weight around against the CIA, they're probably going to want to get their hands all over this sort of situation but they're not best suited. Their wizards are crap. "There should be a safehouse inside a couple hundred kilometers from your current location— you can go with your son for the week or stay behind for the Bullshit-a-thon. I'd pass you up the ladder but currently every rung above us is trying to keep the SCP Foundation from confiscating the entire Balkans. That's why it's going to take until tonight to get some Agents out to you." The girl frowns. "Do we have clearance to be talking about that? I mean, the Balkans thing?" "I don't know, if no one's head is exploding then probably. Anyway, er, tell the local police, I don't know, tell them it was the KKK. Aren't those your violent nationalists?" "They're not his nationalists—" "No, I mean, American nationalists, the nationalists in America." The boy frowns. "I mean, you're not personally the KKK, are you? You don't look it. You've got hair." "That's skinheads." The boy waves his hands in exasperated dismissal. The red wolf has gotten bored of gnawing his throat and started licking his hair into shape.
Alex stands there with his mouth open for a long moment, then shuts it with a resigned sigh. Then, as much to his own surprise as anyone else's, he laughs. "All right, I'll trust you. I'll try to prepare a briefing for your agents; the FBI's been around since these people attacked my son before, so they're more likely to be poking their noses in than the CIA, at least at first. Since my son is a veteran, they seemed to assume it had something to do with a grudge from Afghanistan; no doubt they'll go on thinking that, since his friend who got shot today was stationed with him over there... poor girl, she found out about werewolves and then an hour later she was one. I hope this safehouse is comfortable." Finally realizing he's babbling, he looks at Aspera solemnly. "Sorry, old friend, I'm out of my depth and I'm probably a bit of a liability. But if I'm invited, by damn I want in. These bastards shot my baby boy."
There's a sympathetic pause. "That's rough, mate," the boy says solemnly. "Eat their hearts." Then the young red wolf steals her friend's slobbery pencil and a scuffle breaks out, ruining the moment. "For fuck's sake, what a circus," the boy groans. The girl leans in. "The briefing will be really helpful. If you can't put the police off for awhile, don't mention the hand. They might take it away, and we're going to need it for the tracking spell. Anyway, you'll have to take it up with the Agents once they get there, honestly, I have no training in running ops, I can't help you. Sorry." Aspera licks Alex's hair with an attitude of manly sympathy and reassurance.
"Understood. We'll hold the fort until they get here." Having signed off the chat, he turns to Aspera with a crooked smile. "I didn't expect your organization to be adorable. How young were those little wolves?"
