Following the Powerlines [Micah]

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Too many planes, too many miles, too many regrets. The entirety of the past year is a tribute to bad decisions and rapid change, to scattered pieces of a man strewn like leaves across a nation. Even now he widens his hold, stretched thin and grasping, and sets an ocean between himself and the life he knew; familiarity is stripped from him as the ground falls away beneath his feet, but he cannot stop. In his wake lies both destruction and danger, each wrought by his own hand. Ahead, though apprehension and uncertainty draw his chest oppressively tight, shines the hopeful prospect of a future. He is cut loose, adrift and floating, but he does not – cannot – hesitate.

Nathaniel Hart is running.

It is the next logical step in his maintained practice of problem avoidance. Leaps of blind faith are never Nathan’s preferred method of operation, but a strong sense of self-preservation overrides any doubt; with Boston’s elite clawing for his throat and an uncomfortable collection of burnt bridges and broken dreams shattering his personal life, he runs. Boston had been a pleasant diversion but it had never been home. The wolf had ascended to a throne that did not fit him, and Nathan had paid – would have paid – for its boldness in blood. He will not play the scapegoat for a botched regime change and a dissatisfied audience; corporate takeover rings of violence in an animal world of instinct and dominance, and temporary kings are not often granted asylum.

There is more to Nate’s hasty departure than the simple dramatics of a botched relationship. Guided by the wolf’s rampant paranoia, staying in the city under its new directors becomes a near impossibility; though his downfall is far from assured, the beast’s chagrin is not a thing that can bend to logic or a simple force of will. It has lost. Nathan’s control slips before the strength of its temper, and with his blood hot and his thoughts painted red, every shadow becomes a threat. Guilt is forged into arrogant outrage – and the combination sets into motion an irreversible chain of events.

The Atlantic sweeps by in hours of unbroken blue, and it is a cloudless late afternoon sky that greets him at Ponta Delgada’s João Paulo airport. Never a man fond of traveling – the wolf is volatile away from structure and routine, and he is most at ease in familiar environments – Nathan’s nerves are ragged on the tarmac, a wild tension harbored in the edges of his eyes. Idleness does not suit him, but this is as far as the werewolf has planned, and there is danger in self-doubt. Insecurity is waved off with deft disregard. São Miguel is unknown but its inhabitants are not, and though far from the world he recognizes and understands, Nathan takes to the streets with the confident air of a man who knows – and will find – what he is searching for.

Goals, objectives, and priorities all serve to keep the werewolf functioning. Compartmentalizing life down into manageable tasks and keeping himself occupied will satisfy the wolf for a time, placating the animal with distractions while the human mind works. It is no surprise that Nate is drinking by the time the sky blooms golden on the horizon and paints the ocean crimson with the rays of the setting sun. He excuses it as an opportunity to investigate and reconnoiter, to charm himself into some comprehension of the island’s social atmosphere, but Nathan recognizes it for the escape it is.

It is both unsatisfying and unsuccessful. Inquiries into a certain pair of men lead only to dead ends. The air is rife with the scent of wolf, but the bar does not stand out as some supernatural-oriented cartel; the man’s smiles grow bitter, and he makes a premature exit. Around him the oncoming evening settles in with an ocean-born warmth, the waterfront lit in gold and white as the city awakens and leaves him behind, but the night finds Nathan alone. He nurses a seemingly endless glass of wine at a table for himself, the café quiet compared to its raucous counterparts along the harbor; though the Atlantic lays as a dark and peaceful vista behind him, his eyes are only for the street.

If the tang of alcohol is too rich on his breath, Nathan does not notice. If he has made no arrangements for his stay in the city, he does not care. Somewhere in this haven of wealth and decadence lies his last chance at opportunity and redemption, and he does not expect the trail to remain cold for long. Despair is not a concept supported by self-assurance – and it is the latter that he chooses, bolstered by wine and the wolf’s fervent belief. The night is young, the city vibrant, and he will find a way.

There is time enough for one more drink.

[Micah]

Boston was never the endgame. Boston was an inconvenience of obligation. Micah does not shy away from responsibility. He understands that the merit of a man is measured through his actions, through his ability to weather obligations no matter the cost. Leaving the empire was not his shirking of duties, but a solution to an inherited problem. Why let a crumbling Rome swallow him whole when he could simply abandon ship.

Cycles are meant to be broken. That is how change –how evolution—occurs. Micah is not egotistical enough to claim he knows everything; but he understands that the world is changing and for wolves to survive, they must adapt. Within Boston the old ideas of old men stymied any attempt at progress, and after meeting one dead end after the other, Micah chose to take a different route. The chosen path led out of Boston, but the shackles of tradition were not so easily shaken off. For all things, there must be sacrifice, and the chains of history could only be dissolved by bloodshed.

He understands that Nikolai’s death was swift.

It is not relief that the oldest Malik son feels when he acknowledges that Nikolai did not suffer. Secrets kept buried deep within the family, and deeper still within the company’s medical files, form a stark reality; Nikolai was not the loving and concerned paternal figure that everyone was lead to believe. For all things, sacrifice. It is a motif that persists through their bloodline like a curse-borne plague. Micah does not dwell. What residual coals of anger exist within his heart go ignored. Boston is behind him, the future is ahead. Their blood has been purged of an ailing dynasty.

Micah supposes he should be happy.

Mostly, he is content. But Ponta Delgada provides its own difficulties – difficulties made all the more difficult by a wayward and petulant little brother. Micah wonders over the legality of placing your own brother under house arrest within the Azores. The child simply does not listen and though Micah has reprimanded him each time, the lesson is never learned. He does not think his brother is stupid – just at times inexcusably dense.

A rare modicum of emotion stabs at the werewolf’s nerves, needling for attention. He stares down at the phone held firmly within his grasp, and frowns at the list of unanswered calls and messages. Jericho has not been in contact for over a day and while Micah is not one given to panic, the barest hint of worry gnaws at the edges of his mind. It is a terrible inconvenience. He spends the better part of the evening tracking phantom scents from one establishment to the other. The world appears perfect and unmarred, save for the Jericho-sized hole left staring at him. No clues of violence, no whispers of conspiracy—nothing. Micah is convinced he is overreacting and has fallen prey, once again, to the role of big brother.

It is with a gentle sigh that he takes to wandering down Ponta Delgada’s streets. Unlike Jericho, Micah has taken little time to enjoy the sights and sounds of the island paradise. His view of the world is much more practical; play only when the work is done – and only then. His workload is massive and growing, and Jericho does not have strong enough an attention span to facilitate Micah’s needs. Jericho serves his own purpose; he is an able mouthpiece expert at employing a show of smoke and mirrors—but that hardly helps with the footwork necessary in establishing a new pack. Skin tightens with annoyance and he reaches for his pocket and pulls out a cigarette.

The white stick dangles between Micah’s lips and it remains unlit as he continues on his walk to nowhere. A scent, familiar and not the one he was chasing, tickles at remote vestiges of memory and leads the man into a nearby café. There he spies a silhouette and upon further investigation, the would-be head of Three King’s security team. Micah does not hesitate. He sits down at Nathaniel’s table with the ease of a man who belongs there.

Blue eyes level an unreadable stare at the Boston refugee. Micah reads calm, nonchalant, and the presence of his wolf is strangely nonexistent. ”Boston’s kinda the pits, huh?” Micah has heard the rumors; they only had an ocean’s length of travel to reach his ears. He grips the cigarette between his fingers and removes it from his mouth, holding it out to Nathan. ”Cigarette?”

Reasons as to why Nathan is here are of some concern, but Micah does not press. He rests his hand on the table and waits for the answers to come.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

What thoughts the man has left to distract him are clouded by a fog of alcohol and the distant sound of music. The lights and scents of Ponta Delgada blend into a lullaby, and for the first time in weeks Nathan finds cause to relax. The anxiety that winds his nerves tight is eased with every splash of wine against his tongue; just beyond the commotion of the seaside city he can hear the ocean crashing home, and the effect is unlike anything he is familiar with. Boston had been a cold city, her harbor unwelcoming; Las Vegas had taken the beach and forgotten to add water. Nathan rolls his glass in his palm and shuts his eyes, far from anything he has ever called home but content – if only for the moment – to simply listen.

It occurs to him that he has never had a vacation, and now seems as fine a time as any to reverse that.

Leaned back lazily in his chair, long legs sprawled out beneath his table and a near-empty bottle of wine left before him, Nathan paints a picture of the inattentive inebriate. Beneath his skin the animal smolders, pacing, and despite appearances it is privy to the entirety of his surroundings; it is the beast that senses the subtle pull and change in air currents, the sudden electricity that heralds the arrival of another of his kind, but Nathan does not rise. Only the sudden spark of memory drives him from his reverie, and blue eyes slide open in time to catch the sight of Micah Malik sliding out a chair to join him. The werewolf’s resulting grin is lopsided and bemused, bold in its open honesty; it is not often that he finds himself truly – and pleasantly – surprised, and his recovery is sluggish for the Merlot in his blood.

If life ever had any intent of teaching him a single valuable lesson, it should stop throwing him bones.

”It outlived its charm,” Nate replies dryly, fixing the other man with a curious stare before bothering to haul himself upwards. Placing his elbows on the table, Nathan drops his chin to his palm, extending his opposite hand to accept the proffered cigarette. ”If you don’t mind?” A coaxing flick of his fingers will encourage a light, and only then does the man take a slow and drawn-out drag, a measure of relief evident in his subsequent sigh. The silence that settles between them is that of would-be acquaintances and patient men. Though Micah’s wolf is a near non-entity, Nathan manages some measure of solace in the simple presence of pack; he allows the quiet moment to linger, reluctant to fill it with the answers to questions left unasked and yet understood.

”Boston is—” and he struggles for the words, gesturing with his cigarette, ”—under new management.” The man’s tone is wry, an amused smirk playing on his lips; it is a pathetically delicate phrasing of a shift in power so often hallmarked by violence. ”Some old money powergrab made when the company went public. They started talking about making replacements.” Nathan shrugs the notion off, but the supposed decree is ominous in its intent. What better way to establish control than to fill your ranks with yes-men? The finer processes of managing a corporation may elude him, but Nathan recognizes the importance in establishing dominance – and eliminating competition.

”I took control after Nikolai, you know.” A flick of his thumb ashes his cigarette distractedly, and Nate fixes Micah with a resigned smile and tired eyes. ”Let’s just say the Azores sounded lovely this time of year.” With a host of pack secrets and a wealth of information at his very fingertips, Nathan’s greatest strength had become an insurmountable weakness – a vulnerability compounded by his obvious conflict of interest. Dethroned monarchs, no matter how brief the reign, are a liability, but the one-time security chief does not seem terribly distraught over the loss.

Nathan shifts back in his seat and sets an ankle across one knee, idly watching the smoke curl from between his fingers and into empty space. ”Jericho mentioned coming here. When he told me what was happening.” An unreadable expression falls upon the other man, and the werewolf lifts his glass before draining it of its remaining contents. ”My plane landed this afternoon but I – well. I haven’t made any plans past that.” The thread lies for Micah to pick up or discard at will – and Nathan will not ask for what he is uncertain the other werewolf can even offer. Though thousands of miles from home and with a single bag of possessions to his name, his pride still refuses to let this be easy.

He supposes, should all else fail, that directions to the nearest hotel would suffice.

[Micah]

An orange glow rasps to life, casting harsh shadows over the table and the two men sitting around it. Micah holds the heat source out and allows Nathan to pull from it until the acrid smell of burning tobacco and tar smolders on its own accord. ”I can’t say I’m surprised.” The lighter vanishes back into an inside pocket and its owner relaxes back into his seat. ” Boston—“ The word hangs until the line of thought is abandoned. Micah ducks his chin, smiles with closed eyes, and reevaluates what he is trying to communicate.

”Boston,” he begins anew, ” is a clinic for geriatric cultists.” A thumb runs over his bottom lip in thought and Micah shakes his head, as if to share grievances with Nathan. The elder Malik brother is far more measured in his approach to conversation than the younger. Where Jericho fills spaces with pretty words and storybook metaphors, Micah takes his time in navigating exactly what he wants to get across. ”Let them have it. Why should the younger generation have to inherit the baggage of the former? Let them have it.” In this Micah circles around the subject of Nikolai without truly touching upon it.

He contemplates taking out a cigarette for himself, but the taste drifting from Nathaniel’s is enough to keep the edge off. Micah possesses an uncanny amount of control and his only known vice is an addiction to nicotine, and even that is limited. The pack of cancer sticks that sits snug within the man’s suit jacket is two weeks old and only half empty. ”I’m sorry I made you a scapegoat.” The statement is direct and Micah meets Nathan’s eyes as he delivers it. He is not one to shy away from blame, or to justify his misdeeds as anything more than necessary actions.

Throwing others into the fire so that they might build a ladder out of the chasm is a modus operandi when it comes to the Malik family. Rarely, if ever, is Micah inspired enough to consider an individual anything but fodder for the cannons. A reserved stare wanders over the ex-security chief and Micah’s disenchantment with the world relents, if only enough to allow Nathaniel a footstep into the other, brighter side. ”Jericho was right about you. You’re smart. You got out.”

The argument that followed Jericho’s meeting with Nathaniel was explosive. Micah had insisted that cluing Nathan in was a mistake. He could have undermined the entire operation. He was a liability, a loose end, and he needed to be eliminated. ”He misses you, you know.” Jericho never refuses Micah anything, but in this he was rigid. Dangerous. Nathaniel would live and go untouched, and Micah did not press the matter further because his brother’s wolf was beginning to show. Fear is a healthy emotion when self-preservation is the endgame, and Micah has learned that Jericho’s other half is not to be trifled with. ”I’m not sure he even realizes it himself, but he does.” As a watcher from the outside, Micah is free to share his observations.

Nathan proved to be an able security chief. He also managed to run the pack by proxy, which is enough to warrant Micah’s practical respect. He is alive. He is in Ponta Delgada when Micah is hurting for skilled men to fill the roster. But suspicion is an innate personality trait and he cannot help but take the scenario with a grain of salt. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Micah takes the bait and hopes it is not attached to a deadly hook.

”Plans have a way of materializing out of nowhere.” Spoken from experience. ”As they are often born from necessity.” A waitress wanders by and Micah waves her away. They are out in the open and there is the distinct possibility that others are listening in. He chooses to keep the conversation limited to Boston and their immediate relationship. ”You did not give the game away. You kept your mouth shut. I don’t know where your loyalties lie – but I’m willing to take that gamble.”

Micah never aspired to be a pack boss or a leader of any kind. Fate dealt him a bitter hand and he chooses to do with it what he can. ”The question is – are you?” Would Nathan be willing to throw in with the very men that dragged him into a decaying kingdom – the men that left him there to fend off the wolves? Micah admits, he is curious.

Ponta Delgada shimmers like a dream, like the promise of a new beginning. Micah waits to see if Nathaniel wants a piece of the fantasy.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Presenting himself as sober takes little more than a dose of concentration and an engaging conversation. Nostalgia and memory serve to clear Nathan’s head now that the night presents a reason to avoid temptation, and Micah’s company is welcome for more than the selfish reasons he expects. The image of the would-be insurgent is drawn out of a world Nate recognizes; he bridges the cap between familiar and foreign, and it does more to settle his nerves than the other man will ever know. Micah is a better option, in the long run, than having first crossed paths with the younger Malik brother. Jericho has a way of deftly disarming him that does not lend itself to a discussion of business – and Nathan will be more comfortable in Ponta Delgada with some idea of where he stands.

He rolls his shoulders at the notion of apology. ”As you said. Let them have it.” A pull on his cigarette divides his thoughts, gives him time enough to compose his words. It is not only for a love of vice that Nathan so often finds himself indulging. ”You couldn’t have predicted every detail. I should have known better, but—” But what remains unsaid, and the werewolf trails smoke with every trivializing sweep of his hand. His concession graciously offers Micah a way out, and he does not expect that the offer goes unnoticed; the past is reconciled, and allowed to remain past.

Chalk it up to the needs of two desperate men, each forced to rely upon the other.

”I don’t need to cling to a dying empire – and I don’t stay where I’m not wanted.” The look he levels at the other man is sharp and candid. Boston had made its opinions of him clear, and Nathan had chosen the obvious route of self-interest and survival. ”I put in what I get back.” Bravely assuming temporary control was a choice made out of a misplaced sense of responsibility; he does not crave the limelight, but he does repay his debts, and even now he does not regret having given Boston the chance. To have his efforts discarded in exchange had briefly stung of betrayal, an impression compounded by the wolf’s vain outrage – but cutting ties had been easy. Nevermind the beast’s pitiful state of apprehension, the loss of stability that sets his world spinning. He had survived.

Resisting the phantom offer that had laced Jericho’s words all those weeks ago had been more difficult than Nate is ever like to admit, but it had not been for the prospect of escape. Even now it is trying not to ask about the younger man; Micah’s offhand comments come as something of a relief, perhaps more so for the secrets they impart, and Nathan’s responding smile is as charming as it is evasive. ”Well,” he begins, conversational and blithe, ”I’m sure we’ll run into eachother.” An ambiguous turn of phrase that is colored by a sordid history, one Nate cannot erase despite his cavalier attempt at sidestepping the topic. For the brief moment his gaze flickers to Micah’s before dropping distractedly to his glass, there is an apologetic optimism reflected in his eyes.

Opportunity wavers like a fever-dream before him, a thing Nathan expects to vanish in smoke before taking root in reality, but he has already taken the leap. The biggest risk is behind him, an ocean away, and his commitment had been assured the moment his plane left the tarmac; Nate leaves his regrets and uncertainties to lie in Boston’s grave. The only direction he knows how to move in is forward.

”You don’t know me well,” the werewolf says carefully, words spoken with some measure of forgiveness, ”so I understand. I don’t particularly know you, either.” Their previous meetings are nothing to build a relationship on; they are men known more to eachother by their deeds. ”But I hope you’ll come to trust that loyalty will not be a concern.” Despite his self-indulgent tendencies, his love for a wild nightlife and his own countless personal flaws, Nathan has always been remarkably reliable regarding matters of business. Proving himself has never been a problem, and he sees Micah’s doubts as a challenge.

”I put in what I get back,” he echoes, and places his cigarette between his lips to extend his hand in offering. ”And I seem to have recently found myself unemployed.” Nate strikes a charismatic smirk, one edged with his usual display of confidence, and the wolf shifts beneath his skin to follow the thread of potential. Jericho had brought him to Boston, but Jericho had also granted him his sole means of escape; in light of that fact, Micah’s supposed transgressions can be comfortably ignored.

Leaning back, Nathan reaches for his wallet to leave a handful of crisp bills upon the table, and discards the butt of his cigarette to the floor to be crushed beneath his heel. ”I think this conversation might benefit from some privacy?” Flirtation colors his tone, but his level stare is solemn. Discretion and prudence are familiar concepts. What is at work behind the scenes in Ponta Delgada – what operations leave Micah in need of able men – is yet unknown, and Nathan will not allow his full investment without disclosure.

[Micah]

”You put in what you get back.” They are measured words from a measured man. Humans trade in money and goods. Theirs is a race to see who can build the highest mountain of useless things within the short time on earth that they are allotted. The civilized world is a plastic and trifling thing, and though wolves partake from the font of decadence, they cannot subsist off of it. Micah levels a stare at Nathaniel. ”I understand.” Family is not pack and pack is not family. To allow the entities to mix is to open the door to misjudgments. Still, he understands ; a wolf needs structure, craves it, because without it the world is too complex to face.

The vestiges of a smile pulls at his lips. ”And what do you know – I’ve recently found myself in need of employees.” Fortune is a concept that Micah tends to wave off as nothing more than nonsense. A conclusion does not materialize from nothing. A logical course of action, a series of choices, marks a winding path from point A to point B. ”Lady Luck appears to be on our side.” But there are some things that Micah simply cannot explain – no matter how much he wants to rip them apart and question why.

Nathan announces the practical and Micah moves to follow suit. He rises and gently pushes the chair into place underneath the table. ”Just because my brother is easy, doesn’t mean I am too.” The friendly banter is accented with a twisted smirk. ”But I’ve been out long enough tonight. And judging from the way you smell,” he eyes the glasses on the table before regarding the other werewolf with a knowing look. ”you have, too.” The observation is simply that – an observation. Micah is not one to waste his breath chiding adults for doing adult things. Jericho is a rare exception to this rule but Micah would argue that he does not count because he is not an adult.

He runs a hand down his suit jacket to straighten its lapels and heads towards the exit. Two fingers flick in a lazy command of follow and the pair disappear from Ponta Delgada’s nightlife. Micah opts to call for a taxi and during the ride, does his part in dispelling any awkward silences. Paranoia forces the werewolf to do all that he can to appear normal, and so he forgoes any conversations of worth. The subject he chooses to dredge up is that of his cousin’s wedding – the first time he and Nathan crossed paths. Micah keeps the tone light and carries on with bright smiles and warm laughter, as if they are two old friends sharing a fond moment.

The ruse ends the instant they exit the taxi. Micah takes to the sidewalk and it is a block of footwork before they arrive at the apartment complex. ”Do you know any Portuguese? I don’t.”Gears shudder and the elevator begins to ascend. Micah leans against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. ”I’ve been thinking of learning it. When I have the time.” Smalltalk doesn’t seem so small when both participants are fully aware that it’s there. Micah exits. They trade elevator for a hall, and a hall for an apartment.

Interior decorating is not one of Micah’s fortes, but the rooms are sparse even for him. There is a meager sitting area of one small sofa, an old armchair, and a coffee table. Micah takes his time in securing the multiple locks on the front door as he says, ”Make yourself at home.” It drips with sarcasm as he knows that the apartment is anything but homey. ”I’ll get the coffee on.” If they are to talk, then he requires that Nathan be at full, if caffeine-induced, capacity.

A duo of mugs find their way onto the coffee table. Steam rises from the inky liquid as two werewolves settle in to have a nice chat. There is much to cover; a clutch of screaming questions within both men’s minds demand to be fed their answers. Ponta Delgada is a mystery layered within a werewolf culture where outsiders are shunned as if they suffer from leprosy. Micah knows that there is as much danger in silence as there is in outright confrontation –perhaps more. These are things he should communicate to Nathaniel.

In the yellow light of the living room, Micah watches Nathan. ”Did you ask for it – for the bite?” What should be said falls away under the weight of curiosity. ”Or was it a…surprise gift?” The word ‘gift’ is treated to an upturn of a snarl, a brief and missable show of displeasure. Questions need their answers. A Boston refugee needs his information.

Needs will be met, in time, and at Micah’s discretion.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Clever comments regarding the potential challenge in Micah’s words are dispelled in his next line, a reminder that Nathan is not operating with his full faculties – and that flirting with his potential employer, however half heartedly, is unlikely to be the wisest of decisions. It is a belief confirmed when he stands and a sudden vertigo shifts the floor unsteadily beneath his feet. The most minute of gestures catches his balance in the glide of fingertips along the table – a nearly imperceptible motion – and then Nate finds his stride, making to trail behind Micah like a wayward hound skulking at a new master’s heels.

The wolf certainly feels the parallel. Its presence, though muted by a dull haze of alcohol and lulled into passivity, amplifies in a vain attempt to seek out its compatriot, and it tastes only empty air for its trouble. The man’s allegiance is all but purchased, but the animal bides its time for a more concrete display of authority. It waits.

Nathan has shared enough cab rides with half-familiar strangers for the ruse to feel like a game; though mention of his misdeeds earns a hot flush beneath his collar, an allowance made for alcohol and the vaguest admission of shame, he recovers to play his role. It is not so much an act as it is a deliberate evasion of conversation of substance, and the man possesses enough of a mind for confidentiality to pick up on the social queue. Neither ride nor subsequent walk sees him deviate from that plan, and when playful banter takes a turn for the mundane he responds in kind.

”Not a word,” he admits, stepping into the hall. Languages have never been his strong suit, and he has little patience for impractical study. ”I know some Spanish, but the differences – it’s not really anything to live by.” Mutual intelligibility can only go so far, and picking up more than the occasional curse or how to order drinks while in Vegas had never seemed particularly important; he has thus far relied more upon the islanders’ smattering of English than his own collection of foreign vocabulary.

A door both physical and metaphorical opens, but if Nathan is looking for insight, the bare apartment leaves him wanting. Were the other man’s wolf a more ubiquitous presence, perhaps Nate would find some cause for alarm in stepping so easily into the animal’s den; instead, he simply deposits himself unceremoniously on the couch, hitches an ankle over one knee, and watches Micah work. ”I don’t normally drink my way through business meetings. Not unless they’re particularly boring.” Collecting his coffee from the table, Nathan samples it before deeming it acceptable with a satisfied sigh. ”It won’t be a habit.” It is meant playfully more than in explanation; he smiles behind the rim of his drink.

Leaning forward, the werewolf holds his mug between both hands and rests his elbows on his knees, eyes drawn up at the intake of breath that heralds a change of the conversation’s pace – and Nathan tenses.

It is subtle, but evident in the hard lines of his fingers and the sudden cold set to his stare, the rise of invisible hackles that indicates that Micah asks too much. That alone may serve as the other man’s answer, though the slip is brief. Nathan runs his thumb along the rim of his mug and returns it slowly to the table. ”I was sixteen.” Spoken casually, informatively. ”And I didn’t ask.” Blue eyes flicker upwards, and the taut moment is dispelled in the slow pull of a practiced smile. ”Never met anyone who had. Eleven goddamn years, though – goes fast.” Eleven years to harness whatever potential this plague contained, and become accomplished at it; Nate has never viewed the curse as anything but a condition to be exploited.

”Or did you want to see my scars?” He rests casually against the cushions, gesturing at Micah in challenge. Returning the question is the obvious retaliation, the equal exchange for information given, but Nathan resists it. Tact wins out over hot reprisal; the circumstances behind a werewolf dynasty will not be broached. ”I never – it worked out.” The stumble is a rare window into his surprise regarding the topic, but his tone is firm. ”An accident turned opportunity.” A concept replayed here, where a sudden downturn is forged into new prospects, and a clue as to how Nate operates.

”And this?” He reclaims his drink, swirling the liquid idly with gentle sways of his hand. ”This island – what you’re doing here.” Words are chosen carefully, measured for diplomacy. A deliberate swallow drains the last of his coffee. ”You’ve offered me job – and I’d like to know why you need it.”

Why the clandestine manner; why the locks on Micah's door are latched so tight.

[Micah]

He favors rich roasts with an edge of bitterness; thick brews that even the most dedicated coffee drinker might deem unpalatable. Pleasure will always be eclipsed by necessity in Micah’s world. While bright-eyed boys view the universe as a playground, he must stay firmly rooted on terra firma to dredge through the filth. Somehow he must gather the unknown, decipher it, and cut a path right down the middle so that others –so that the bright-eyed boys—can travel untouched, unsullied. Leadership when it comes to wolves is not a glorious seat of power, but one of constant work. It is a pattern reversed where he will be the foundation – the Atlas to carry their new world.

True burdens are never asked for. They arrive suddenly and are as destructive as a natural disaster. His fingertips press into the hot ceramic of the mug, a thumb taps absently on the handle, and Micah considers what goes unsaid. ”I thought as much,” he levels a jaded look at Nathaniel and allows the pause to grow weighted. ”The ones that ask – they hardly ever make it.” Excitement gives way to fear and their last moments are those of agony and regret. They die neither as human or wolf, but as a twisted visage of broken bones and curdled flesh.

”No.” It is a simple reply, cool and obliging. ”I don’t.” The subject might be sensitive, but Micah gives no indication that he is broaching a personal topic. ”I didn’t ask. I was asked-- offered it.” He sets the mug aside and reaches into a pocket. The werewolf slips a cigarette between his lips and flicks a lighter out. A flame flares to life and he stares directly into it, thoughtful. ”I said yes.” Tendrils of smoke curl from the corner of his mouth. Micah exhales; the plume dances and writhes until it dissipates into the stale air.

He reaches to discard a head of ash into a nearby tray then relaxes back into the cushions. ”Jericho said no.” Micah smiles tightly and shrugs. ”And we all know how that worked out.” This is no random show of confessions; Micah is confiding nothing, he is explaining. ”There’s no such thing as choice. Not when it comes to this.” The werewolf is not a romantic. He does not view their existence as a curse, but as an inconvenience-- and inconveniences can be managed.

Blue eyes regard Nathan with a drawn-out look when he vies for information. Micah’s gaze drops and he stares absently at the cigarette held between his fingers. Through the haze of smoke, he remembers. ”You know, in Boston, they had an entire library full of books.” Micah chooses to circumvent an exact answer with a roundabout one. ”Werewolf law. Werewolf lineages. Traditions. Folklore. It was like a religion.” Nathan wants to know why the Azores, why now, what is Micah doing. To offer an explanation, the man in question must set up some back story. ”And every religion has its fanatics.” The statement is stressed, made meaningful because Micah assumes that Nathan understands.

”Fanatics oppose change. Fanatics make it impossible for the rest of us to just live our lives.” The garden of Boston’s kingdom faded into a dry, dead brown as Micah passed into adulthood – as he grew to understand. ”We can’t come out. We can’t play and make nice with the humans – that will never work.” A pipedream and nothing more. ”But we can make a home. A place away from tradition.” He looks up to meet Nathan’s eyes and holds them. ”A place where choice isn’t a lie.”

He does not want to save the world. Micah, above all else, desires peace. He is tired of bending to the will of old men and their ancient culture. He is tired of looking over his shoulder, of wondering when the wolves will turn on him. ”It’s nice here. Small. Easily managed-- once an infrastructure is in place.” Thoughts began to wander as a monumental to-do list starts to get the better of the man. ” I tried to make contact with the local wolves but they seem to be shy. And I don’t know about you, but things that choose to hide and play the silent game make me antsy.” Micah sighs and crushes the half-spent cigarette into the ash tray.

”I can’t be certain of anything , yet -- of whether this will be a hostile takeover or a diplomatic one. But what I need is for men--Loyal men-- to be here when I find out.” Fingers thread together and rest hanging between two knees. ”Let this be the first act of choice. I’m giving you the option, no consequences attached – are you in or are you out?” It will not be easy. The plan is more liable to blow up in their faces than to work.

A dangerous gamble and one that Micah hopes, in the end, is worth it.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

A free exchange of information is a pleasant fallacy, and one Nathan is intelligent enough to not delude himself with. There is always a price to be paid for access. For many it comes in the regular flow of conversation, the steady back and forth that barters one truth for another – but the werewolf has long since learned to speak without giving much of himself away. He takes the game more seriously than most but he is still an able player; here, Micah earns an apparent complimentary dose of minute personal facts, but what the other man offers in trade is more valuable than a reveal of emotion or history. With Boston burning behind him and Ponta Delgada glittering like a gemstone, the foothold Micah tenders is priceless.

Natural curiosity – and knowing full well how valuable a collection of secrets can be – beg him press the matter further, but in this Nathan’s sense for discretion is remarkably firm. Though the mystery Micah alludes to is the richest sort of puzzle, he receives only dark eyes in mute reply; there is a twisted and wrong edge to the story, to details hinted at but yet undisclosed, and it tastes bitter on his tongue. What more there is lurking between the lines is not enough for reasonable conclusions, but Nate hoards the information greedily, even as the hollow notion of choice turns the conversation sour.

The mood that settles is both thoughtful and dark, an atmosphere born from the character of their discussion. Nathan is not a dreamer; the images painted by Micah are broad and indistinct brushstrokes that present no clear picture, offering few true answers while dredging up countless questions. Pragmatism is a hard lesson taught by a hard world, and flowered words do not so easily beguile him. What matters more is what they represent – what Micah means to do as a result of his beliefs. The dream may belong to the Maliks, and he may require more tangible proof to find faith in a fantasy, but a cause is not vital to carry a flag.

”There is something to be said for the predictability of wolves.” The acrid stench of tar and tobacco fills the room; Nathan’s thumb taps along the ceramic side of his empty mug, still clutched within his hands. ”Old habits die hard. Some natures can’t be changed.” Wolves are wolves, after all, but the statement is spoken with the air of a musing truth. Traditions linger on like muscle memory, but they are often born out of necessity. Nate does not claim to be some scholar of the supernatural. The philosophical implications that shade the discussion are not his forte. What the man understands is the animal and the hunger that no amount of dreaming can change, but the dangers in that will be Micah’s to overcome.

A shift for the practical is welcome and, at this point, necessary. Nathan rests the toe of his shoe on the edge of the coffee table, leaning back to regard the werewolf with a newly curious gaze, the edge of his mouth quirked in the smallest of amused smiles. This is a language Nate understands – one structured around data and planning and based in reality. The challenge presented in Ponta Delgada’s riddle is, if anything, irresistible.

He cannot refuse. There is no such thing as choice. It is an illusion crafted by clever men, and this offer rings no differently. ”You had me at the cigarette, but the coffee was a nice touch.” A joke, but one laced with truth; Nathan is on São Miguel for the explicit purpose of procuring a second – or third – chance. Though the details of what Micah and Jericho had planned were unknown he had chased the hint of opportunity, and it had presented in the form of mutual needs. ”I’m in.” Striking out on his own, returning to a despotic Boston – these are not choices.

”Diplomacy is a ruse.” Micah does not seem the sort to spare him hard facts, and so Nate chooses to believe the man instead thinks careful negotiation might yet be an option; he directs the discussion to the practical. ”You are a foreign wolf invading their territory. They have the advantage in terrain and numbers and knowledge. Why should they parley? You say they’re shy.” He waves one hand in vague elaboration, discarding the notion in a gesture and the draw of a wry smile. ”Caution breeds mistrust. Mistrust doesn’t play nice with diplomacy.” A practiced habit for planning for worst-case scenarios manifests in understandable paranoia. Nathan sighs, elbow on the armrest and cheek pressed to his knuckles, and levels an analytical stare at the man opposite him.

”I’ll need a map. Whatever information you’ll trust me with, and what you think I can do.” He would not resent the Micah for holding back, but the werewolf has no desire to let his skills go to waste while they crawl about in the dark. Nathan did not cross an ocean to act as dumb muscle. There is a beat, one in which a clever smile lends a roguish cast to his features, and though he is hardly in a position for contract negotiations Nate makes his request. The night is no longer young; an evening of drinking staved off, however temporarily, via caffeine does not bode well for further scheming. ”But right now, if you could find me a place to sleep, I think we’d be off to a good start.”

[Micah]

Reality is harsh and Micah offers a wan smile. Though he stares in Nathan’s direction, he is not looking at him. His attention is focused into a haunted place where thoughts wander weighted with the chains of responsibility. ”I’m not in a position to pretend that there are any options other than diplomacy.” Nathaniel paints a pessimistic but honest picture; Micah’s fledgling pack is horribly outnumbered in an unfamiliar territory. They cannot act directly; to do so would mean suicide. ”But I suppose that’s where you come in.” The statement is dry and devoid of any compliment. It is not a challenge but a call to action.

Information is in short supply and is therefore more precious than gold. Blue eyes focus onto Nathaniel, the man who, in one fortuitous night, has been chosen to feed the machine. ”Whatever you need.” Micah inclines his head in assent. ” We’ll get into the specifics later – when you’re not pumped full of alcohol and caffeine.” It is a good-humored smile that he offers. Nathan’s state of mind aside, Micah needs time to consider the man and to understand where his skills would best shine.

”You’re welcomed to the sofa for the night. We can figure out something more permanent tomorrow.” The apartment complex has a few vacancies, of this Micah is aware. He runs a hand over his clean-shaven face and sighs into his fingers. Recruiting Nathan was a stroke of dumb luck, and Micah is not comfortable running an operation on the whims of fate. He does not even believe in fate. As the werewolf treads further into the task of establishing a new home, he finds himself more and more at the mercy of an idea he cannot fathom. Jericho would call it a good story. He would allude to a hero’s journey and paint Micah as the protagonist.

Jericho.

Micah’s attention snaps onto Nathan. ”Tommorow,” he begins as he drops his hand to rest between his knees, ”I need you to help me find something I lost.” There is no sense of urgency emanating from the man, only a vague measure of jaded agitation. ”You see, my dog , Princess, got out two nights ago. And I have not seen hide nor hair of him in over a day.” There is no mistaking who Micah is referring to. ”While I’m sure he’s doing nothing more than making nice with a neighbor’s leg, I just can’t have him running around without supervision.” They have been over the stakes and his younger brother fails to understand the merits of discretion..

The werewolf’s lips quirk into a smirk and he pushes up from the armchair. ”Get some rest. We have what I expect to be a long day ahead of us.” The task of finding a wayward little brother is but one item on their agenda. At least now Micah thinks he might have found someone capable of shouldering some of his burden. He has no delusions – he knows he cannot do this alone. A lingering gaze settles squarely onto the man sitting on the living room couch. Micah waits a beat and whatever thought he is nurturing dispels in a blink. ”And try not to snore –I’m a light sleeper.”