2021-06-20 - The Whatever Weasels

Teddy S. Addington High: Not an exciting place to spend an afternoon on most days. The basketball team isn't hopeless and the cheer leading squad is decent. Yet no activity in high school is going to send the pulse racing in most adults. A little more exciting now than at most times: Storm Cimaron is battering Gray Harbor. The high school gym has become a makeshift hurricane shelter, with all that that entices.

The smell of damp clothes and cooking permeates all. It mixes with the smells of sleep, of children in diapers, of the pets in crates and classrooms commandeered for the purpose, of the cigarettes people keep sneaking in spite of the smoking ban, of smelly feet, of the Skittles that Mrs Neely keeps sneaking, of the chicken broth that is Mrs Sanchez' family recipe, of wet boots and the socks that were in them (and the feet!), of sleeping bags, of heavy winter clothes that in turn smell like the wardrobes they came from, the slight presence of mold that wafts from the gym's showers, industrial soap and that strange smell of floor planks that has been present in every school gym in the history of mankind.

Most of the kids love the camping out like this. Most of the adults don't (there's no accounting for Peter Cambridge, the scoutmaster).

In spite of the weather, people come and go from the shelter. Most volunteers aren't taking up space in the shelter themselves. Folks drop off donations of food, blankets, diapers, -- requested in the dedicated Friendzone post. A couple of patrol officers drop off a hobo who tried to ride out the storm in somebody's garden shed. It's chaos, though at least for now, chaos is contained. That spirit of all-togetherness that exists when people get together in a crisis (and tends to evaporate fast when the crisis is past).

There's a lot of fear. Will there be a house to go home to, when the dust settles? How much will the roof repairs cost? Will the neighbours be okay? Will Mr Whiskers? Will the insurance premiums go up? And what if there is a fire? Or those rough men from the homeless camp under the Boardwalk, what if they get rowdy? What if the Peters brat starts another fight?

Mundane fears, but in large qualities.

When you put this much Veil denizen kibble in one place, it's only a matter of time before the thin fabric between realities tears. The HOPE volunteers know this. So does anyone else with the shine. It's doubtful that any of these people are all that surprised to find reality shifting around them. It was, after all, only a matter of time. A tropical storm in the physical world -- and in the other world, a supernatural high tide.

And as often before, the choice of who gets pulled in seems to be completely random. Somewhere out there, between realities, it might all decided by a pimply kid rolling celestial dice.

The high school gym is still there, and so are the people in it. A strange grey overlay turns the light into an eerie twilight, the kind that seems to bleed at the edges. Reality itself seems trapped on oldfashioned celluloid that's running a little too hot in the projector. The effect is disconcerting.

Most people become shadow. Shapeless figures moving through the semi-dark with jerky movements as if slightly out of sync. A few of them, though, have outlines in shades of red and yellow -- like a video game marking the targets to click on. There is but one common denominator: They're all asleep in their makeshift blanket beds.

Eat and make merry, my friends.
This is the feast that never ends.

The voice is a velvety whisper that wears the darkness like a sleek coat. And out of the shadows they come.

Like snakes out of the night, little creatures that resemble weasels in form and movement. Eyes gleaming like tiny embers they emerge in shades of grey, slipping across the floor by leaping from one shadow to the next. They home in on the human shapes outlined in red, bouncing, sliding, and making hungry little dooking noises. A few pause to sit up on their hind legs and look around, sniffing like meerkats. Suspecting, perhaps, that they have company in their strange little dream of feeding.

And in the gym door stands the speaker; a willowy figure made from shadow and starlight, holding a reed pipe in one translucent hand. Does the figure realise that it in turn has been noticed by a small handful of people, each with their own reason to be here at this particular time?

Does it care?

From the cafeteria kitchen wafted something that smelled tantalizing. Kailey had managed to snag a 100lbs of chicken thighs from Sweet Retreats vendor, who was passing through town. Sometimes people are good and that company new how to help small towns facing a crisis. Maybe they had family here. Whatever the case was, Kailey had chicken baking in her own ShakenBake recipe of thyme, garlic, rosemary and sage.

And she was coming out of the kitchen and into the cafeteria serving area proper when things went weird. It made her pause and slowly look around at the shadows of people. Quickly she set the chicken down, snagging one for herself because she was damned hungry and, well, shit was getting weird. The cafeteria and gym were connected and her sprint, looking for things familiar, ended there. Kailey scanned the room with a scowl even as she lifted the thigh up and took another bite. "'Kay...shadow weasels. Great..." And she flung out her hand, not the one with the chicken, and sent her own color out into the grayspace they found themselves in. Shields made of glittering red-purple flickering around the apparent targets. Focusing on the children first.

"No animals out of kennels or leashes!" Is the best she can think to yell at the figure in the door.

The radio station had received a decent number of supplies itself. One of the afternoon DJs had been doing a charity drive around town: broadcasting from popular locales and encouraging people to come out. In exchange there was a raffle for some concert up in Seattle later in the summer.

It'd been pretty dang successful and AJ had taken on the task of helping deliver the goods. He was schlepping another crate of canned goods into the gymnasium when things slid.

Setting down the crate, Ash sighed and lifted a hand to give a tug to the Carhartt beanie that matted his hair down to his forehead. Elsewise he was just in jeans, tee (surprisingly a plain brown one today), hiking boots, and a coat. Not even a flannel. He's slipping. Or he's just busy with his own storm prep and laundry hasn't quite happened yet.

He might wanna get on that unless he plans to hang clothes out in the rain to get them washed.

There's a startled look over at Kaley. Maybe it's just seeing her there and reactive. Maybe it's her attempt at a quip. His shoulders hunch a bit, but while she's trying to shield people....he goes a different route. At least for the moment.

There's a furrow in his brow as he mentally reaches out, trying to push at the weasels. Seeing, maybe, just how animal-like they are and if he can use that against them to send any back to their leader.

"We might wanna stop the pied piper," Ash notes.

A cruiser's pulled up into the school parking lot, no lights or sirens. The wind buffets the rain against the windows where it's idled for a few moments; and then the engine's killed, and a couple of cops climb out. One of them in uniform, with Sergeant's pins. Big black guy who's running his mouth about sports. The Mariners, to be specific, and how they've been doing this season. The other guy, a shorter and slightly older Hispanic man, is clearly recognisable as the Chief.

Both of them are in heavy duty ponchos, and radios crackle as they brave the distance between parking lot and school entrance. Moretti's the one who answers the call, explaining that they're on scene at Teddy Addington High to follow up on a couple of reports of overcrowding and assault. They don't expect to be long.

Then Ruiz pushes the door open, and everything almost simultaneously gets turned on its head. He can feel his pulse hammering in his throat as the room becomes engulfed in that smoke-twisted darkness, and he turns toward his partner-- only to find him gone.

"No cats out of kennels or leashes!"

Kailey's admonition is repeated by Mrs Jankowski; a middle-aged woman whose strong feelings about cats in particular are becoming known to most people in the hurricane shelter -- largely because she goes on about them to anyone who will listen, wanting the cats out. Mrs Jankowski has a smidgen of shine of her own, and judging from the timbre of her exclamation, her hatred of felidae just expanded to include mustelidae.

When streams of red and purple flare from Kailey's hand to envelop the outlined shadows of unsuspecting shelter dwellers, Mrs Jankowski nods. With an expression like an action movie hero getting ready to kick backside, she dips a hand into her very sensible jacket. A small firearm appears; because what housewife in Gray Harbor does not pack a Sig Sauer P938 in case of an emergency?

And what potentially problematic situation is not improved by the addition of an angry person with a firearm?

Not quite so sharp on uptake is Ravn, coming out from the store room, usually home to assorted instruments of torture associated with gymnasts, with another armful of blankets. He's expecting the GHPD to send a patrol car around every once in a while because there's bound to be arguments and minor violations of half a dozen laws in a place and situation like this. The Dane turned coordinator (not entirely by choice) isn't sorry to keep touching base with the actual emergency responders; by now he wouldn't be surprised in the slightest to have to stop a yachter from killing a boardwalk hobo, or the other way around. The occasional police officer sighting might help keep a few tempers in check.

Here's the familiar face of the Chief of Police himself walking in -- and then the lights go out, turning everything into a greyscape of foreboding shadows.

Shadow weasels bounce, snake, and saunter their way around the basketball court. A few scamper onto shadows now outlined twice -- once by that eerie video game effect, and once by Kailey. They open maws too big for their little skulls and -- do nothing, because what they wanted to chomp down on is now hid behind shades of red and purple shield-light.

To Ashley's mind-touch the little creatures feel cold and wet, hungry and scared; like animals chased from shelter by the storm except --

Otherworldly. Weasels, but not weasels. Things forced into the form of weasels if they want to exist in this reality adjacent to the reality inhabited by humans; the reality that is bleeding into the human reality, or maybe the human reality is bleeding into theirs, and really, let's just go with, there's a lot more weasel to these weasels than ordinary weasels can manage. And that a lot of something is unhappy and cold, wet and scared, and wants to feed. Small predators of another world, driven from their shelter by a storm that seems to reach into multiple realities.

The eyes of their master, green like the first leaves of May, seek out Ashley. Almost mockingly, the man dubbed pied pier performs a small, elegant bow at the DJ.

Then he raises his hand with the reed pipe in and blows a single note before speaking:

>This bouncing boy I have taken,
>Into a dream, never to awaken!
>Come, my friends, come and play;
>Keep this rabble out of my way!

A man's cry rings out, distorted and distant, out of sync: "Where's Rob? Rob? Who's got my boy?"

The shadows of one family group shuffle about jerkily, searching their improvised camp area. There's baby stuff there; bags of diapers, a small baby carrier with a lovely afghan in it -- and no baby Rob.

Baby Rob sits on the arm of the willowy figure in the doorway. Baby Rob is fully visible; the infant must have some of that special Gray Harbor touch too, or maybe the weasels' master has somehow pulled the child fully into this shadowy alterness.

"Bloody hell," Ravn murmurs in a sentiment no doubt shared by anyone else possessed of even an ounce of genre savviness. Because when, if not during a tropical storm, do enough frightened people get together in one place to provide an easy buffet for things that feed on fear; and what is the greatest fear of a parent sheltering from a tropical storm if not that something might happen to their child?

Weasels made from shadow and fear sit up and then leap. Denied their chance to feed on the fear and misery of vulnerable people in the hurricane shelter, they do what angry animals do best: They turn around to attack that which denies them what they want.

And in the doorway, almost within arm's length of Police Chief de la Vega, their master laughs as if this is the most amusing thing.

Their minds are confusing, a mess. Difficult to navigate. But then, Ashley's probably never had cause to try to direct a weasel around before. Still, he's able to separate beast from Veil-thing and: "There's actual hungry creatures in there." But he's already tapping into his own shine, preparing to deal with the weasels launching themselves at him. He has no gun and he's not really of a mind to try... well, punching a weasel. He wouldn't be very good at it, anyway. So instead, he tries a bit of electro-therapy. Or gears up to do so. Maybe it'll shock the things out of their hosts?

The spoken-word-bullshit earns the figure a pointed finger from AJ. "Put the child down!" Or else? Look, he hasn't got that far. He's not a man of quips in person. That's all the radio-sona. Here in the real world he is awkward af.

De la Vega starts to go for his own Sig, holstered at his ribs and under his jacket. But this is before he realises there's an infant in his line of sight. Snarling in irritation, he shoves the weapon back into its rig, and takes a swift step toward the guy directing the weasel.. things. And attempts to muscle in, and get him into a chokehold. He's not actually cutting the guy's air off. Not yet. The goal, for now, is simply to control his movement. "Do what he says," in a bark that those around the precinct know well. "Do it. NOW."

Kailey whirls about as the man starts rhyming again. And her eyes go very wide. The rage is almost instant. It doesn't have to be -her- child being threatened. Little Rob could be her own Mew or Qaw and that will not stand. A hand lifts and she is just about to telekinetically yoink the child from the pied piper. But then there is weasel. In her face. And she lets out a sound that is part growl and part yelp. And instead of yoinking electricity sparks between her fingers as she goes to punch the shadow weasel leaping at her, still making that surprised yell.

Suddenly, weasels.

De la Vega's brisk bark may have come as a surprise to the willowy master of weasels -- a man who, from his body language, is more used to being the smug asshole directing the goings-on than he is to taking orders from police officers. His expression is almost comical -- surprise and outrage flit across too pretty features. If a stare-down had ensued, he might have ended up caving to the hard, no-bullshit stare of the police chief and perhaps dropped the kid after all.

The stare-off is interrupted, though -- by a literal weasel to the face. A pale shadow weasel launches itself upwards in a feat of agility that underscores its otherwordly nature; no actual weasel would have been able to leap like that. Teeth rake across de la Vega's chin, spattering red that looks dark and oily in the half-light.

Kailey, mother of one and co-parent of another, wastes no time; lightning flies from her hands and strikes a surprised weasel; the smallest of the bunch was bounding her way teeth first but is stopped flat. It staggers, missing her leg by several weasel-lengths. A not quite pleasant smell of burnt fur rises up from its singed coat.

Two weasels launch themselves in the direction of Ravn and Mrs Jankowski. The latter, mentally scarred by similar creatures in a similar situation, does not hesitate; she raises the Sig and fires it, right into the chest of the chubbier weasel; a spray of oily black reveals that weasels, too, can bleed. Ravn manages to raise his arms in self defence, only to have the teeth of the injured weasel rake down his arm. If your choice of defender is between a surprised academic and a middle-aged mother with Veil-induced PTSD, pick the latter every time.

Ashley is not so fortunate. Perhaps it's because he was the one to first raise the idea of resisting, first to call out the weasels' master and label him the pied piper -- a small flock of weasels rush toward him, knocking him over and down. Lightning ripples from the DJ's hands even as he goes down, severely burning a one-eyed specimen -- but they are too many and too fast. Ravn -- who knows very well he's no scrapper -- tries to dislodge the chubby weasel from his arm by swinging it at its companions, hoping to get the other man back on his feet before... Well, before weasels eat his face.

The weasels, on their end, seem to be capable of doing at least some tactical math. A couple stay focused on Ashley but most turn on Mrs Jankowski and the piece she's aiming at the smallest weasel, ready to fire again -- and on the guy pulling them off Ashley.

For while Ashley is apparently not half bad with his lightning fingers, he's not really all that good at evading freakin' weasels.

And a stoic he is not. For as sharp, pointy weasel teefs tear into his chest, he lets out a cry of pain. And it's all too much in the moment, maybe, because he does collapse over. Not that weasels are heavy, but because they were going for his chest -- that's where his organs are! -- and he falls over in his attempt to protect himself. Or maybe he just blacks out. Six of one, half dozen of another.

Ruiz's attempt to body in and get an arm around the pied piper of weasels is disrupted by the blur of something flying at his face. Necessitating him jerking away and trying to swipe at it-- after it's taken a piece of him with it, of course. Fucking rodents. Fucking high school gym. Where the fuck did Moretti go?

No time to consider alternatives, or continue trying to talk this whackjob down. He's pretty sure he's close enough to grab the kid before he hits the floor, if he can manage to peg the guy. So he goes for it. The Sig's hauled out of its holster, safety off, bullet into the chamber, two shots aimed at the pied piper's head without hesitation.

The purple lightning that strikes from Kailey to the Little Weasel is very reminiscent of some Emperor dude in a popular movie franchise. And she aims a lame kick at it as her eyes are drawn to someone else. The downed DJ who she hasn’t ever met, but certainly listened to, has gone down. And it looks like those weasels don’t intent to let up either.

More wispy purple-red light shimmers from her hands to wrap around Ashley. Settling into a mostly invisible force, only sparking in red when touched. More of the red and purple reach out to wrap around the baby. She hasn’t even broken a sweat yet maintaining the shields she has cast out. And perhaps it is this which prompts her bravado, eyes turning again to the Pied Piper and his hostage.

“Put the child down, or I will pull what goes for a heart from your body,” She isn’t sure she can do this thing! But she is willing to give it a try. And her mama-rage may well prove useful in that regard.

Red and purple flares of light expand to wrap about the child carried by the master of weasels; Kailey is putting up an impressive light show, and the expression on the man's face is anything but grateful -- he probably feels the energy create a subtle barrier between himself and little Rob. His lip curls up in a snarl. Is there any weak target around that Kailey has not wrapped her light show around? He twists his head around to glare at her with all the hatred he can muster -- and that is indeed quite a lot; and in doing so, miraculously evades the bullet that embeds itself in the doorframe behind him.

The willowy figure's eyes snap back to Ruiz, widening.

>Who brings nothing to war but sound?
>Sir, you mock this, my battleground!

One could get the impression he doesn't quite understand what it is the police chief is pointing at him. He raises the hand that he is not carrying a (shielded) toddler on and points, clearly intending to put the man in his place.

Ravn, meanwhile, keeps trying to peel weasels off Ashley -- and the dislodged weasels do not appreciate this treatment in the slightest. They turn and throw themselves at the folklorist teef first (and boy, those little weasel teef are sharp), tearing through the fabric of his shirt and raking across flesh. What feels like a mustelid missile going right through him is probably just cuts and scrapes -- but that's a neuropathic condition for you; all the fun.

The teeth of the white weasel tear flesh, spattering red on Kailey's arm in spite of her leather jacket; it seems intent on taking her on all by itself even as its companions turn to focus their attentions on the man with the strange noise maker. Perhaps the white weasel is the one to have put together that as long as the purple-haired woman stands, they are denied feeding upon the vulnerable shades of humans going about their business in the half-light, unaware what's going on in a reality parallel to their own.

Next to her, Mrs Jankowski fires her 9 mm noise maker again. The smallest weasel becomes a tableau of Pollock-esque art on the gym wall.

Suddenly, it becomes clear to the master of weasels and his minions what it is that Mrs Jankowski and Chief de la Vega are holding respectively -- or rather, what these things do (besides make loud noises). The one eyed weasel launches itself from the ground -- another mustelid missile, attaching itself to Mrs Jankowski's face. They go down together in a pile of trashing human limbs and angry weasel dooking.

The majority of the weasels freeze and turn to focus their attention on the police chief -- and then bounce towards him with murderous intent.

>Kill the mother!
>Then deal with the other!

Somebody's getting angry; he's running out of catchy rhymes. Maybe the weasels' master is picturing his own brains splattered on the gym wall next. If so, it's not an inaccurate prediction.

The second shot doesn't miss.

The radio DJ is just a music and news nerd. And a nerd nerd. He's no fighter. No hero. He might fancy himself one. Ask about his paladin sometime.

Just don't ask right now because Ashley Jones is still out cold. He does flail a bit at bitey weasel teefs. They might be doing better than Ravn so far at stirring him.

Kailey snarls like a wild thing as weasel teeth find her flesh through the leather jacket. More war scars for the leather jacket. It sure has put in it's duty protecting her, as Everett no doubt intended. She violently shakes her arm to dislodge her attacker. As the Weaselmaster goes down she begins to run to scoop up the probably terrified and now possibly hurt child. "It's okay, Robby, you're safe," The young mother says as she crouches by him.

Purple electricity crackles before shooting at the white weasel. "Round and round the shielded babe, the human chased the weasel. The human was done, it was not fun, pop goes the weasel!" Kailey can rhyme too.

Ruiz apparently isn't in the mood for nursery rhymes. Or rodents. He pops off two rounds; one goes through the guy's neck, and the other into his head. And Kailey's already reaching for the child, so he turns and tries to blast one of the weasels leaping at him instead. The others, he tries to ward off with an arm thrown across his face.

It's a good thing that Ravn is not a high school cheerleader; his attempts to peel weasels of Ashley and perhaps rally the DJ back into the fight are about as useful trying to stop the tide with a sieve. Turns out music nerd plus academia nerd does in fact not equal heroics. He winces at Kailey's altered lyrics (and resists the urge to point out that Pop Goes the Weasel refers to Victorian era alcoholism and poverty because at this time, who the fuck besides him actually cares).

Mrs Jankowski is down. Ravn reaches over to swipe her little firearm. Hot lead seems to get the job done on these mustelid assholes. Animal protection services are welcome to file a complaint later. The teeth of the one eyed weasel rakes across his chest; it's hard to tell whether it does any real damage or it's the Dane's neuropathy that causes him to yelp in pain even as he aims the borrowed Sig at the chubby weasel. Here's to hoping Seth Monaghan's shooting lessons have not been entirely wasted.

Kailey is not pulling punches; the white weasel's last lesson in life is how to fly across a room encapsulated in purple lightning. It's quite a show to watch -- and it seems to spur the larger group of weasels into fury. The lightning lady is the reason they are not feeding! The lightning lady holds the easiest prey! The lightning lady is about to take a pile of weasels to the face!

Coordination is not a key skill of weasels anywhere; a grey weasel seems intent on continuing to chew on Ashley, while the chubby one that Ruiz tore off himself bounces towards Ravn. The majority, though, head for Kailey and Baby Rodney.

And all about them, people go about their business in the basketball court turned shelter as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on -- unaware of the shadowy things that are being turned into smears of blood and fur, unaware of the willowy figure whose brain meats have given the door a new paint job. And no wonder -- spatters of red on the floor already smoke and evaporate like tiny wisps of shadow. As so often before, the bleed between one reality and another is fixing itself; Officer Moretti is no doubt going to turn around in a moment to wonder what's keeping his boss -- and never know what just went down behind him. It can be aggravating, the way the Veil always provides some kind of perfectly normal rationalisation of the most bizarre incidents.

Almost as aggravating as the very notion that some otherworldly baby snatcher thinks he can just waltz in, grab whoever he likes, and bury any opposition under a horde of shadowy, weasel-like creatures.

There is something brewing around Kailey right now. The air has the scent of ozone and burned hair and meat. The only color that which she is throwing out in this grayscape. "I'm saving the child," She tells those still there even as one arm flings out, finger pointed. Through the air she sketches a door with that finger, a line of violent purple light follows. That light should not exist in any place being entirely our of place in any chromatic receptors except maybe birds. But as those lines connect in the bare second it takes her to sketch the door, it flames into brilliance. And beyond is the normal world of the gym.

The last thing the people still in the Veil see is her flipping the raging weasels the finger as she steps through the door. It winks out of existence the second she is fully through. The first thing people in the gym know when she steps through is all the bulbs in the overhead gym lights and window glass shatter at once, plunging the room into darkness. A feeling like a shock wave rocks the room in that glass-shattering instant and the wind outside roar angrily. The backlash of Glimmer use will be blamed on the storm likely...

"Shit," Kailey says under her breath as panic ensues.

It's a tricky shot, trying to put a bullet in a small, wriggling weasel while two more are leaping at him. Javier twists away at the last second and his shot goes wide, but at least his face remains intact. The moment he has a clear window of opportunity, he tries to put a couple of rounds in the wriggling mass of weasels bent on savaging Kailey.

Unfortunately for Ravn, it's the biting of weasel teefs that bring Ashley back out of it. The man is in bad shape, but he at least becomes coherent again. Enough to see that the pied piper is down for the count and the kid is safe. That's good. He expresses this with a "Mrrghrngm" of pleasure as he pushes himself back upright. Extending a hand toward one of the nearest weasels to try to zap it into leaving him the hell alone. No more attempts at pithy witticisms from him. Or if he is, they're only coming out as incoherent grunts.

One moment there is purple lightning lady with a juicy morsel on one arm and the next moment there is not. In weasel world, this is simply not cricket -- and the remaining mustelids are not pleased. While their master lived they seemed to have purpose and direction: Find the most vulnerable people, do things to them -- things that probably would not be pleasant -- but then Kailey covered those vulnerable shades in outlines of purple and red, shielding them from sharp little weasel teef.

And now Kailey is gone. And so are those shields.

Some weasels manage to maintain their focus and stay on the people trying to dispose of them. The majority throw themselves towards outlines of people who do not quite exist in this shadow world. A homeless guy, crying softly into his blanket about his belongings under the boardwalk, which the storm must have swept to sea by now. A teenage girl crying because her crush has not noticed her in the middle of all of this, and she has yet to experience making out in the boiler room. A young boy, pouting because all his parents do is argue about whose fault it was, going to the coast now. An older man, quietly whimpering because the weather is making his arthritis hell.

Can the weasels reach into the world of people who do not shine? Can they rend and tear the flesh of people who cannot see or perceive them? Or are they going for something less tangible?

Either way, it's feeding frenzy time. The majority of the weasel bounce off the police chief's trajectory and bolt towards those new targets like tiny mustelid missiles. They leave a trail of red-black as they do; one of the lot were turned into a messy little stain on the floor by de la Vega's firearm. If animals were brilliant tacticians they might realise that the Mexican is by far their most dangerous enemy at the moment -- but they aren't, and they don't, and this is probably going to be a mistake that costs them dearly.

The lights go out in the waking world as Kailey re-emerges there, baby Rob on one arm. Does anyone notice? The lights, yes -- there is the amount of what the hell and oh god, not this too that you'd expect from people cooped up in a basketball court. There's even a fair amount of not again, damnit, because it's only been a day or two since the power grid failed the last time (because the basketball court sort of shifted into a faerie dimension for a few hours, but most people here are as aware of this as they are of what bribes their congressman is taking).

In the shadow world, the one eyed weasel and the chubby weasel attempt to keep Ravn from rousing Ashley, teeth raking across clothing and tearing skin. The Dane grits his teeth and sighs in relief when the DJ manages to shake himself hard enough mentally to get back into the fight. The lightning that flies from Ashley's fingers towards the grey weasel may not turn it into weasel flambée but it certainly causes the animal to hesitate a second. And then renew its attack.

Squeezing the trigger once, twice, Ruiz manages to put one shot in a squirming rodent while the other lodges itself in the wall. Snarling in irritation, he racks the slide and paces in closer, head jerking only briefly to the spectacle of Kailey up and disappearing along with the child into thin air. Then pop, pop as he continues shooting at the mass of weasels scurrying across the floor, hopping over prone bodies of oblivious muggles in their efforts to tear into those imbued with the Shine.

"Where'd the girl go?" Ashley missed a lot while he was out and his voice comes out a bit hoarse. He's going to struggle with the broadcast. There might be a couple nights of music-only until he's better. He looks to the prone body of the piper and just grunts. But as the weasels leap for the now-prone individuals, he lifts a hand and with a groan, applies himself to shielding them much as Kailey had. His is weaker... much as he is, but he does manage to get something in place. Concentration furrows his brow and his glasses are askew, but damnit, he's trying.

"I used to like weasels," he mumbles.

For her part Kailey does a little more magic, despite having just experienced a major problem of a backlash. Naughty Kailey. Something or someone will torment her for it later no doubt. Trying to be subtle about it, however, she simply makes the lights appear around her hand. Bright and natural sunlight in color with a flicker of purple glimmer now and again. Her 'spell' casts a light equivalent to a propane camping lantern. It is her hope it will draw people's attention, since most folks are turning on their phone lights now.

"EVERYONE CALM DOWN AND STAY WHERE YOU ARE! Emergency persons are here to help with the lights. Right now I need RODNEY'S parents!" Her voice projects with the power of someone who took choir all through high school. And so she begins to seek out the boy's parents.

Pop go the weasels as Ruiz' hot lead tears through the largest group of furry limbs. Pop goes the one-eyed weasel as hot lead tears through its rib cage. And pop go the flickering energy shields that flare from Ashley's hands -- only to flicker right back out when the grey weasel launches itself at his abdomen, teeth first, furious at being denied its feeding chance.

The chubby weasel pauses in its attempts to run in circles around Ravn long enough to find an easy opening -- possibly because of what happened to its one-eyed companion. It seems to evaluate the situation a moment, with an intelligence that belies its animal form. Then it whines -- and dramatically flops over on its side. Dead.

Only, its acting performance might have been more convincing if it'd shut its eyes. Or at least not visibly kept one eye open to watch what people are doing.

Ravn stares momentarily at the small Sig he lifted off Mrs Jankowski. The Dane has taken a few shooting lessons from Seth Monaghan, sure -- blowing away a rapidly moving target just like that has got to be a stroke of beginner's luck, though. He breathes out, hopes for the best, and aims at the pile of weasels next -- because the larger the target, surely the better odds.

The police chief -- beyond a doubt the person present most accustomed to being in situations that involve terrified people and showers of hot lead -- is the one to spot a curious thing about the pile of weasels that he is firing his piece into: Now that the shields protecting those shades of people who are going about their business in another reality, ignorant of the proceedings in this one, are gone it becomes clearer what the weasels are doing -- they are licking them.

Not biting. Not clawing. Not tearing. Licking.

In that other reality, Kailey is holding up a bouncing baby boy and calling for his parents. Mr Chaney the lumbermill worker sits up and looks down at the toddler carrier that should contain his little son -- and which doesn't. He gets to his feet and runs towards Kailey through the strange half-light provided by cell phone lights, battery torches, and, well, Kailey. His cry of "My boy! What happened to my boy? Oh God, thank you, miss, is he all right? Who took my boy?!" is heard over the general din of people blinking at the lamps and rationalising -- as the muggles will -- that somehow, the storm must have taken down the power grid. An electrical surge -- can those knock out light bulbs like that? Obviously they can. It happened, didn't it?

Even beat cops learn the basics of situational awareness in tense situations, and Ruiz is no beat cop. He's brought in, occasionally, for tense situations just like this one because he doesn't let himself get distracted. Because of his cool under fire. And even as he's trying to fire into the mass of squirming rodent bodies, he's noticing something. "They're taking their emotions," he snarls. At Ravn, maybe, given the direction of his gaze. "The fucking weasel.. things. They're licking them." He fires again. "Making it so they don't give a shit about anything." This time, a flash of electricity that cracks from his fingers and splits into several of the little creatures at once.

“Well that is a good question. I found him just over there, sitting on the floor,” Kailey says as she turns to point roughly where the fallen weasel master was. At least on the other side. “He’s old enough he maybe crawled out in the chaos. Babies are tricky that way. My girl is learning the Art of escape now that she has walking almost down.”

Little Rodney is passed back to his father without hesitation. Then she glances around in a vaguely worried fashion. It is hard to put shade to face, especially with the lights out. “Crappity crap,” She says softly to herself. Does she dare tap into her Glimmer more. Her head is already beginning to pound. And she hasn’t yet realized it, but her nose has started to bleed.

Ravn's shot at the flailing mass of weasels goes wide (and some day, the high school janitor is going to be looking at a hole in a rafter and go, 'gosh, the termites around here have big teeth'). Ruiz' attempt to barbecue the lot of them does not -- and in this parallel reality of shadow at least, the smell is out of this world. Delicious hints of frying bacon mingles with the stark reek of burning fur as lightning bounces from one small animal to the next like so many tiny mustelid firecrackers.

It's not a very pretty sight. Unless one's perspective is that of 'get the hell dead, you parasitic little assholes', in which case it is a very pretty sight.

The chubby weasel takes one look and stays plopped over next to Ashley. It is the most dead thing that was ever not alive, and it clearly has every intention of playing possum until it can make its escape. Out of the lot, the chubby one might be the smartest by far (although it may also be argued that this does in fact not say a lot). DEAD, at least until somebody blinks and it can make its escape real quiet.

The grey weasel looks up from rasping its little pink tongue over the face of the shade of Mr Bolton who works on the harbour. The dockworker looks dazed -- tranquil even, or perhaps sedated -- and his tiny, hairy tormentor slash parasite takes one long look at the smouldering stack of dead animals that used to be its compatriots.

Its beady little eyes go wide.

It bolts.

With a speed unbelievable even for weasels -- who are not known to be sloths as is -- the grey weasel is gone, right back out the door to the big, dark Veil nothing out there.

Ravn looks back at Ruiz -- and then tosses the pistol aside in favour of once again trying to rouse the unfortunate radio guy. "Emotion eaters?" he murmurs, with a glance at Mr Bolton whose expression remains unchanged, sitting where he is in that other reality, the non-Veil one. "Here's to hoping the effect is temporary. Because I have no fucking idea what to do if it isn't."

He glances at the chubby weasel. It pointedly does not glance back. "Tempted to break that little rat's neck," he adds, in the tone of someone whose shelter keeps getting invaded from the Other Side, and yes, he saw this coming, and yes, everyone else saw it coming to, and yes, it's exactly what you'd expect, and yes, the Veil can stop now, please. Priorities, though; first, check that Ashley's injuries are not life threatening. Second, perhaps find way back to other reality.

In that other reality, Mr Chaney is relieved to have his son back -- and expressing his gratitude to Kailey with a slightly panicked expression. Somehow the kid must have crawled off while he wasn't paying attention. It's his and his little son's pure luck that somebody was paying attention. He'll not forget this. The man is almost in tears.

And behind him, Mr Bolton stares into space with a vacant expression. So do a couple of other people.

"Are you okay, honey?" asks Mrs Bolton and looks at her husband.

"Whatever," says he.

"You don't look so great. A bit under the weather?"

"Whatever."

"Just feeling a bit numb," says Janet McConley who cleans for a living, in a dull tone. "Like nothing really matters. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Just tired," agrees Mark Chemnitz, the mill worker. "Whatever, let's just get some rest. Fucking storm."

Kailey smiles warmly and nods understanding to the upset father. "Oh I know. I'd be beside myself if Mew wandered off," She assures him. Only she has a few tricks up her sleeve that this man doesn't. So baby retrieval? She has it down. But of course it is Mr Chaney who notices the blood beginning to dribble from Kailey's nose.

"Ummm, miss? You're nose is bleeding," He says, reaching quickly for his pocket and handing her a small package of wipes from his pocket. Nearest thing at hand. Kailey reaches up to touch her nose with a curious frown. Looking at her fingers in surprise when they come away bloody.

"Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit," Kailey worries out loud as she takes the wipe and pinches her nose shut. "Thanks. I think I better go to medical...just in case..." But there is worry as she glances around and doesn't see Ravn or Ruiz or the DJ. Biting her lip she moves over to one very dark corner. Then once more she draws a door in the air which crackles with purple sparks and Glimmer.

"Time to go, folks! I can't hold this open long," Kailey shouts through the door, her face turning pale as she does. In fact the door stays open long enough for the three to exit, stage left, before she faints, the door slamming closed almost too close on the last one through. Good thing there's a medic station just in the gymnasium. She'll be fine after a nap. Probably.

This is a very bad go good day to be a DJ. Or to at least be Ash Jones, Radio Personality Extraordinaire. He got bit just-so and again passed the fuuuuck out. Blood loss, y'know? Or shock to the system. Something along those lines. It means those shields don't last long, it's true. He might've been better off zapping the dang things again. But once all is said and done, with a little help from Ravn, he'll probably be able to stir enough to make it to the door Kailey opens. Or at least rely heavily on Ravn and Ruiz both for help getting to said door. And then he can find a cot to sleep for a while. Sleep sounds real good.

The pretendy-corpse of a somewhat overweight weasel goes flying out the door to the shadow world outside, helped along by a boot to its hairy bum. While this is no doubt not a very pleasant experience in as of itself, this chubby weasel will be leaving this building having learned avaluable life lesson: When you are playing dead, lie still.

On the up side, it escaped alive.

So do the other prisoners of the shadow parallel reality. Three men, two of them in not too fantastic shape, hauling each other through to -- a gym that's just as dark on the other side because every light bulb seems to have blown. But in good news, there are people there, flesh and blood people, who are already yelling at each other to find the janitor, to get new bulbs from the store room, to fix things.

If Mr Bolton and the other people whose emotions appear dulled have anything to say, maybe they'll say it later. For now, the weasels are gone, leaving only 'whatever'.