London, England
Cyberlock Offices, London Division

Benton Archer hated paperwork.

He especially disliked it on a Friday night while London spun herself in glorious riots of color and noise outside his windows. This paperwork however, was especially distasteful. His expression reflected this as he frowned down at the pages in his hands and flicked them over, pale eyes scanning the following page with growing irritation.

Across from him, a young woman sat in expectant silence, a small device in her hands. Her hair was cropped short, an icy blonde that was almost white and her eyes were wide and long lashed, doll like. She tapped occasionally at the screen in her hands with one long fingernail, they were painted varying shades of purple. It emitted tiny beeps at intervals that would otherwise have driven Benton mad except that what he was reading was distraction enough.

"And this is the latest we have on the situation?"
"Yes, Sir. Came in an hour ago."

One name in particular jumped out at him and the tin of pens on his desk rattled as his fist thumped down against it and he growled in frustration. "Damn it, Gregory was here for ten years. I personally picked him to head up things in Colorado." Benton's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, he could feel a headache gathering momentum behind his eyes. He waved a hand toward the figure seated across from him. "Find me Croft, would you Tina? Tell her I need to see her before dawn."

"Ms Croft is on her final patrol, Sir. Should I - " His glare stopped her short.
"Just - get her here. Whatever it takes."


Benton Archer stood at the window with his hands neatly folded at the small of his back. His assistant had finally left to track down the Fostern Ragabash and he narrowed his gaze as it swept out over the city below. He'd spent a long time working his way to the position he held now, at the cost of relationships with his cousins and his reputation outside the nation. Friends had been hard to come by, trustworthy ones even more so but Gregory Pierce had been one of the few he considered such.

A tall, skinny man with round glasses and a propensity for laughter when anxious, Pierce had also been a truly gifted programmer and essential to Cyberlock's initial successes in the online marketplace. He'd also been weak willed and easily intimidated, Archer mentally added with a deepening scowl and turned away from the window with a sigh.

If the Wyrm could get to someone as deep inside the company as Gregory Pierce, the contamination was worse than any of them had previously thought.


The Glass Walker that entered his office an hour later was deceptively slight. It often threw Benton to think this woman that barely reached 5'3 in heels was a Garou beneath the skin. There was something about the eyes though, that told him all he really needed to know. Beyond the prickling awareness of Rage, there was just something vaguely predatory about Lois Croft's gaze that even a smart wool suit and briefcase couldn't conceal.

He supposed that her small size made her more effective as a scout, though. At least, all his reports reflected it and if there was something Benton didn't question, it was the data.

"How's the packing going?"
"All set, you'd be surprised how quickly one can uproot their lives when need be."
"We've got your paperwork for the transfer. You'll be met at the other end and the American branch will hold your ID badge for you at reception."

There she went with the eyes again, they flicked over him and he felt his spine stiffen. "Something else, Sir?" The cool manner she offered the last rankled. He'd never warmed to the woman, she was too composed, too calm and focused and utterly certain of her skills. Benton was no traitor to the Nation or his tribe - but he liked the Garou to be what they were - monsters. Lois Croft tidied hers away beneath makeup and suits.

"Yes. Well, something worth mentioning. We've had word they captured a spy at Cyberlock's US headquarters. An infiltrator. It may mean some data has been compromised. They're still assessing the fallout. I want you to keep your ear to the ground while you're there, Croft. The last damn thing this organization needs is for wind of this to get out. If you see or hear anything that has the potential to touch us - you bring it to me. My eyes only, you understand?"

There was a pause, the Garou's expression was guarded as she regarded her employer. She had the power to overrule him, of course, her rank, if nothing else, gave her that right. "Of course."


Denver International Airport

Babysitting duty, that's what this was. He was being punished for falling asleep for five seconds on the job and was now resigned to standing at the international gate with a little sign waiting for some British transfer to the company to arrive. He hoped his scowl was enough to drive the woman back on the plane, it would serve his superiors right. How was he to have known the damn spy would choose his shift to cause trouble?

A stream of passengers began to disembark from the plane and with a sigh and adjustment of his cap Anton held the sign up against his chest and plastered his best professional smile in place. It felt like over warmed taffy, slowing melting away and making his cheeks hurt to hold while it did. His eyes traveled over those exiting the long tunnel from the plane, you could always tell the first classers, they had a well rested look about them that progressively declined as the stream devolved into the regular folks relegated to uncomfortable, cramped seating and crappy service.

Anton smirked.

Then jumped, as a crisp voice spoke into his ear. "You're waiting for me, then." He turned and blinked, remembering only after a moment of gawking to close his mouth and scramble to tuck the card under his arm. The woman, Eloise Croft, his assignment had named her, was shorter than he was expecting and rather neatly dressed for having been stuck on an airplane for several hours, the slacks and blouse barely registering any wrinkles, a suit jacket folded over an arm. The accent was cultured and she had striking green eyes set into a round face, framed with straight, shoulder length hair.

"I - er - yes. Yes, Ma'am, that is. I am. You - er - only have one bag?" He scrambled around beneath her gaze like a worm on a hook before settling on the small suitcase she'd wheeled out behind her. Her eyes dropped to consider it with a slight arch of brows, the pull of her mouth upward into a smile didn't make the sweat building under his collar diminish. "Apparently so.

Come along." She began to move away from the terminal, wheeling the small suitcase and Anton jumped against his better intentions and hastened to follow, feeling infuriatingly rattled. They always managed to get under his skin.

"Er - " He started, carefully weaving around people milling in the airport. The brunette stopped and turned to face him in a neat arc, head tilted.
"Yes, - I'm sorry, we weren't introduced. How unbecoming. I'm Lois."
"Anton Telford, Ma'am. Security for Cyberlock."
"Yes, Mr Telford?"

Nobody called him Mr Telford, not even the big boss. He fidgeted on the spot. "You should let me take that for you."

The Garou seemed surprised as she thrummed her fingertips over handle. "How gallant of you. I believe I can manage however. Not to worry, though. There's plenty of heavy lifting to be had at the baggage terminal. Off we go, Mr Telford."

Anton frowned after her as she began to move down the walkway. He lifted his cap to scratch his hands over his scalp and doffed it again, tucking it down and rounding his shoulders as he started after the Fostern. He wasn't sure how she'd managed it, but he suddenly felt the unwelcome sense someone was babysitting all right, it just wasn't him.


Fort Collins

The motorcycle wound through the darkened streets and carefully pulled in from the flow of evening traffic, the rider drawing the vehicle to a halt on a grassy strip and lifting the visor on her helmet. Across from her the impressive grounds of Colorado State University began, it was a leafy campus, combining the best of its location against the mountains with modern architecture. She'd never seen it outside of pictures but it drove an unfamiliar sliver of unease through the female's frame - this was the last place her sister had been seen.

She lowered the visor and drew back into the flow of traffic, weaving through the cars.


Nobody noticed the blurred creature that streaked across the campus. The security cameras wouldn't capture the reason behind the broken lock on the door to the Metford Lab. It would be chalked up to vandals.


Downtown Denver

The email was encrypted. The sender address bounced around several fake domains. It had two recipients (the Sept of Cold Crescent and GWNet) and careful decryption provided a simple, efficient introduction:

Greetings -

I am Lois Croft. Alias Exit Protocol. Fostern No Moon Glass Walker. I am in your city.

I am not a threat.

Correspondence welcomed. Return via address, will intercept.

Big Grin 
One Domain. Two Domain. Three Domain. Four. Five Domain...

The Signal is bounced and the bread crumbs followed. It would take two cans of redbull and some fritos, with a starbucks mocha soy latte with extra foam to chase it all down. (The Barista's expression was disapproving, when her question of 'Do you want some Whip with that?' was answered with a prompt 'Watch me Nae Nae' followed by a Line disrupting dance party for one that lasted a good ten seconds).

A quick plug and play sent his phone out into the world like a hungry hound, sniffing for tags he could hash to his search parameters. It wasn't long before Lois' "Introduction" slapped across his notifications and he sat in the window of the over-priced coffee house thumbing across the screen and reading over the lines or her email.

It took three seconds, two coffee sips and a jittery little 'Hmmmmmmmmmm' to flip the phone horizontal, set down his coffee mug and begin to trace inappropriate lines of data and information back to their all too appropriate source.

* * * *

You've got mail

Or whatever the equivalent on Lois' intercepting device of choice was.

The Subject line was "Yooooooooooooooooooo, gurl"

Fresh and Clean, Ms. Croft. Any relation to Laura? Jokes LULZ,! Peep this, my shit, like yo' shit, is the shit, 'cause we packin' MAD Brothers from the Spirit Mothers and you ain't even gotta feel me foh Realz, Ya Heardddd?! For real though, I peeped your flight details and biz connects off from the Jolly Old Stiff Country, 'n Mama Mayhem 'ersulf said I gotz ta make buddies. Like mah Facebook!

#Besties #McflytomyBrown #MortytomyRick #Thisain'tnobootycall #ferrealz #Isawthatmugshotofyouthatonetimeandwaslikedamnnnnnnn #notforrealrealthough #justforplayplay #Gdubs4-7143 #HeyGurl #wannatakearideonmahvespa

The Signature on the responding email reads simpy "Turn'tit'up" followed by a rather long stream of Big Grin
And a link to a blank Facebook page titled 'Troy4Presidunt'. 

Q @ 9:47PM
(Encrypted Inspection of Lois' Introduction: Wits 3 + Computers 4 (Hacking))
Roll: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) [Doubling Tens]

Noel @ 9:51PM
Terrance Mackabee does not receive any instantaneous response from the Fostern but one can only imagine that a creature such as Lois Croft was, with her connections and obligations likewise being what they were - she was no doubt rather engaged setting her temporary life up in the city. Greeting employers, charming co-workers (or airily instigating longer term displeasures). It's also equally possible it takes the Englishwoman a few days to translate the slang. It does come, though.

Eventually, there's a response.

An email, as a matter of fact.

Subject: Re: Yooooooooooooooooooo, gurl

It's a pleasure I'm quite sure though you need not concern yourself overly with titles. Lois will do just fine. I'm pleased to know I'm not the only in the city. I've since been informed the Sept of the Cold Crescent is no more which is, understandably, quite distressing.

Have you any knowledge on what transpired? Perhaps we should endeavor to meet.


There is, regrettably, no like to his Facebook but the Fostern delves far enough to deduce his spirits will recover from the omission.

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