Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (22% full).

Steps lead up from the southeast corner.

The kitchen is far enough from the cell in the basement that only tantalizing whiffs of smells come drifting down. Yesterday afternoon, cookies - and fresh cookies, delivered with her evening meal. At noon yesterday, burning bacon, which never appeared. This morning, more bacon without the unappetizing charred odor. And footsteps. Not Grey's - she's gotten quite good at identifying those. Surely not Rina's either. The mystery is solved when there comes a double-rap on the door and Natalie's voice: "How are you doing in there, Cy?"

There's a pause, then an unintelligible mumble from the other side of the thick door.

There's a corresponding pause from this side of the door as well. "I'm sorry," Natalie says politely, "I couldn't hear that. Could you say it a bit louder, please? Your breakfast is getting cold."

The reply is still mumbly from sleep, but there's an audible, "Yeah," from the other side of the door. Fifteen-year-old werewolves in basements do not take kindly to being roused at eight in the morning, it would seem.

Once verbalization is achieved, Nat shoots back the bolts and pushes open the door. There's a plate in one hand, draped with what looks like a tea-towel. Very domestic, whether it be for a snuff-film porn ring, druggies, or werewolves. Her eyes flick over the room until she spots the girl, and only then does she step inside, absently kicking the door closed behind her. "Morning, Cy. Brought you some breakfast."

Cy is a safe distance away at the opposite wall, levering herself upright on her pallet of folded blankets with a skinny arm. The bunker is neat as can be: a plastic garbage bag next to the Luggable Loo, and little else. Squinting under the harsh light of the vault's single bulb, the girl sniffs and grunts. "W'time'zit?"

"About eight-thirty," the woman answers, glancing back at the door. The tell-tale slide of metal on metal accents her words; only after it's come does she move into the center of the room, offering the girl the plate as if she was a waiter. "Pancakes and bacon. And a fork, if you think you can be trusted with it. I heard what you did to Thomas with the toothbrush." Her left hand reaches behind her, emerges holding a honest-to-God fork. Four tines. "Can you be trusted with it, Cy?"

That earns Natalie a sleep-befuddled scowl of adolescent proportions--but it doesn't stick for long, as Cy recognizes the scent of fresh bacon. Settling her spine against the concrete wall, she scratches at a shoulder. "Yeah," she admits, eyes to the ground.

Natalie says, "Good." She pulls off the towel, draping it over one shoulder, then lays the fork on the plate. Pancakes and bacon, as promised. "Come and get it, then."

Cy frowns again--it seems she's been spoiled by Grey's door-to-blanket service, recently. She begins to clamber to her feet, but pauses sharply and does a strange little wriggle-dance, reaching under her shirt momentarily. Muttering, "Easy now," under her breath, she withdraws her hands, cupping a small brown object. The redhaired urchin peers down at it with obvious concern, then lowers it to the ground. The roach wiggles its antennae and quickly skitters away. Cy watches until it disappears behind the garbage bag, then turns back to Natalie. Frown's back in place.

Natalie's eyebrows have leaped for the ceiling at this little display, but she doesn't scream or gasp or do any other of those satisfying feminine stereotypes. The hand holding the plate doesn't even tremble. "That's a good sign," she offers, holding the plate a fraction closer to the girl.

A barefoot shuffle closes the gap between them, and Cy takes the plate and silverware without fanfare. Blinking at the woman, she grunts, "W'zat mean?" She doesn't bother to sit down yet, spearing at a pancake viciously as she backs away.

"It means," the woman answers evenly, her thumbs drifting forward to hook into the front pockets of her jeans, "That I'm glad you're getting along with with the roaches. If I'd known, I would have brought something down for you to give to them."

The girl's back meets the wall, and she goes sliding down into her habitual crouch, cradling the plate in her lap. "D'need it," she mumbles around a mouthful of pancake, chewing appreciatively. Picking at the edge of a 'cake, she breaks off a few crumbs and scatters drops them next to the blankets. The cub-in-denial is considerably calmer than Nat's ever seen her, still lazy from sleep.

Food? Food! A second roach makes its appearance from the folds of the blanket pallet, and comes running out to investigate.

Natalie says, "This is where I'm supposed to say, 'You don't eat enough to feed a bird,'" her attention dropping for a second to the roach restaurant before landing back on the girl. "That's what my Mom always said, anyway. But I won't. If you're feeding the roaches, we can get you a little extra for them. We're rather fond of cockroaches around here."

Cy's dark gaze lifts to the woman's face momentarily, unreadable. "That's what the guy said," she agrees, not even searching for a name. She picks up a piece of bacon and starts gnawing without ceremony, showing that gap-toothed spot in her mouth.

"And he was right." Nat continues to watch her eat, her gaze about as non-judgmental as they come, though tinged with more than a little curiosity. A few moments of silence pass. "--Thomas, right?"

The first slice of bacon is gone in short order, and Cy sucks any excess grease from her grubby fingers. "The one with the freaky eyeball," she supplies helpfully, moving back to stabbing pancakes with her shiny new fork. The roach at her side is happily crawling all over the crumbs; Cy watches with a hint of approval.

"Thomas," the woman confirms. "He's like you, you know."

Cy wrinkles her nose, eyes jerking back up towards the woman. "Goin' psycho in a basement?" The retort is unmistakably bitter.

The accusation brings half of a smile to the stocky woman's face. "I was thinking something a little more esoteric than that. But yes, I suppose you could say he's a little psycho. I'm worried about him. --Ask him, next time you see him, how the two of you are alike."

The girl shovels a large bite of fried batter into her mouth, but she makes an expression of distaste. "Why'y'worried about him?" She chews rather messily. Let's avoid that little 'werewolf' subject, why don't we.

Natalie's next words are likely to take Cy out of left field. "Because he's unhappy, that's why. And I'm responsible for him." She ends there, completely failing to go into any detail.

Cy does look taken aback, for an instant. Her chewing slows thoughtfully. "Cult thing?" A few crumbs fly out of her mouth with the words. Swallowing, she doesn't wait for an answer. "I'd be unhappy if I's all tore up like that, too."

"It's not a cult," Nat says immediately, frowning faintly. A shake of her head tries to banish the mood but can't, quite. "--Yes, he has quite a lot of scars, doesn't he." Her own scars aren't nearly as impressive as the older man's.

The girl's attention hovers over her food as she continues to stuff her face. "He says I gotta earn m'way outta here," she informs the woman lowly. She doesn't look too pleased by the prospect, and the tines of the fork clink angrily against her plate.

Natalie still hasn't moved from her spot in the center of the room; it essentially gives her ownership of the entire place, leaving only the margins for the girl. "Oh? Did he say how?"

"Listen," the girl grunts in answer, as though quoting word for word. "--Accept. Learn." She picks up another piece of bacon and eyes it balefully. "Rot or run free." She tears into the bit of pigmeat with a vengeance, her expression dark.

The other half of Natalie's mouth quirks up into a wry smile. "That sounds like him, all right. Have you made your decision yet? Which one it's going to be?"

Cy's jaws work rapidly on the bacon, and she glowers at the woman as the conversation takes a less savory turn. "I'm not joinin' yer cult," she says decisively, a stubborn glint in her eyes. "Lookit what it did t'him."

Nat continues to smirk. "You're already in it, kiddo. Your options have really narrowed. Ask Thomas what I mean - what'll happen if you stay stubborn about not," her hands free themselves so she can air quote, "'joining the cult'." "--Are you about done?"

The girl practically pouts, a mix of anger and frustration showing plain on her young face. Wordlessly, she picks up the last of the pancake in her hand, uses it to mop of the leftover syrup, and shoves it into her mouth. The plate is slammed onto the floor--plus silverware--with enough force to make some noise.

Natalie wordlessly extends a hand. Wants something, does she?

And gets it, she does--Cy snatches up the fork and hurls it in the general direction of the woman's head. Javelin-style. "Fuck you," she growls.

Natalie dodges out of the way barely in time, then advances on the girl in a rush, lips pulled off her teeth. There's barely time to blink between when she's standing in the middle of the room and when she's slammed the girl back against the wall, forearm pressed unforgivingly into Cy's throat, snarling face bare inches from Cy's own. "Manners. You ever do that again and you'll regret it for the rest of your short life. I need another problem cub like I need to be shot." She shoves her arm into Cy's throat again for emphasis, then pushes herself to her feet, snatching up the plate as she goes. Thomas may have her beat hands down for sheer intimidation factor, but she's no slouch. "You hear me?"

Cy collapses into a pile of shaky limbs and too-large sweatpants as soon as she's released, pop-eyed and white as a sheet. "I--" She gulps, then coughs. Looks like she's been hit witha two-by-four.

Natalie stalks over to pick up the fork as well, turning her back on the girl as if any threat from her was less than negligible. This time Cy can see her walk across the room, instead of... teleporting? Only after fork and plate are rejoined with a muted clink does she turn to give Cy a cool, appraising look and an equally as cool, "Well? Do you hear me, Cy?"

The girl is staring dazedly at some spot on the floor, still trembling. A few heartbeats pass. "Yes," she finally whispers.

"Good," she says simply, evenly, as if the blow-up had never happened. "I'll tell Thomas you've eaten. I'll make sure he brings cookies, if there are any left." She heads to the doorway, and over the sound of the lock sliding back adds, "See you later, Cy."

[End of log]