An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctor Away [Myk]

[Sabra]

It's been a while since Sabra picked locks, a skill picked up from a friend down South who used it for less than savory methods. Thieves weren't her favorite kind of folk, but it was the fool who refused free learning. At first she had considered the peaceful and civil route, knocking on the good doctor's door, introducing herself and politely asking if he would be willing to hand over those stash of files on his werewolf compadres? Unfortunately, the good doctor wasn't home today and Sabra was fresh out of patience. Hence the lock picking tools, taken only as a precaution. She was sort of like a boy scout in that respect, always and endlessly prepared for the worst possible outcome.

Too often in her world the worse possible outcome was the final outcome. Sabra had learned to cope.

A final lift of the little hook and the tumblers finally click in place. A hard fought for smile tugs at the corners of her mouth and she withdraws cheerfully, tucking the instruments away into her jacket pocket. "Magic fingers." She slips inside the newly opened home and closes the door behind her, teeth glinting in the darkness. It took more than a fancy lock and a high profile neighborhood to deter her. Rather than fumble for the light switch, Sabra allows her eyes to adjust, to coax the wolf out of her hiding place deep within the well of her body and to breathe power into dulled human senses.

She doesn't take much coaxing, this beast of her's and soon enough the room comes alive with a myriad of scents, the musty smell of old books and man--a single man, no one else lives here, not a woman or a child, not even a dog. But then one could argue that the doctor already had one, carry on style. She can tell what he's had for breakfast this morning, eggs and bacon, crispy at that, with, if she is not mistaken, orange juice. When Sabra is satisfied she leaves the room for the next, searching out an office, a bedroom where he might keep the files of his once patients.

Although not completely sure of what they held, it had to be more than what she already knew. Clues and hints as to what may have befallen the empire the Maliks had so carefully constructed. Names, dates, medical records, anything was helpful. It was not for Malakai's greedy hands, but for her own benefit, to arm herself, not with knives and guns, but knowledge. Sabra couldn't remember the last time she had regarded brains to be stronger than brawn, but here she was, beaten out and reduced to searching through a doctor's home.

Granted it was a very nice home and as time went on, the thought occurs to her that this mission was a tad less stressful than going after misbehaving werewolves.

The last room in the house proves to be fruitful and she flips the lights on in the small office, illuminating a desk, and hallelujah, praise Jesus, a filing cabinet. A locked filing cabinet. The door having been opened in a few minutes, this is small potatoes and with a twist of the smallest pick, Sabra springs the first drawer and takes an armful of the files, spreading them out on the desk before her. Names are highlighted on tabs and she takes the few that she recognizes, stealing the doctor's comfy chair and putting her boots up on the table without a second of hesitation.

If she was going to read, she might as well do it in comfort.

[Myk]

The door isn't locked.

The revelation isn't greeted with alarm or concern. The good doctor simple stared down at the knob, and withdrew the key that was apparently unneeded in this situation. He locked the door. (He always locked the door.) Which meant that there was something inside. No-- someone. Something approaching confusion is simply washed away by a concoction of curiosity and rage.

Well.

Action is clearly called for.

His bag is briefly set down on the floor and he kneels down the rifle through the contents. Pulls out a vial and a syringe. Normally, Myk wasn't one to carry anti-psychotics around with him, but he'd been forced to make a house call. And preparation was necessity for uncooperative, potential violent patients, especially those with the ability to morph into wild animals. Deft hands fill the syringe with the clear liquid and he even has the presence of mind of check of air bubbles. Contemplates whether or not to pop the cap back rather than risk sticking himself, but just pockets the only weapon.

The knob is turned, the door is pushed open noiselessly and he enters proceeds across the threshold with caution.

Unlike the burglar, the intruder, Myk couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary. Nearly eight months into the descent of sharing headspace with a beast, he and the creature would have nothing to do with each other. Only around the reappearance of the full moon did it surface, the pair of them at odds for days before the wolf slinks away into the dark once more. Writhing back up under his skin in a few weeks time. With as much control as he exercises on his environment, his (temporary) guest was unrestrained.

Making his way through the dark, simply out of familiarity with his own living space, he approaches the light (he had turned it off when he left). Edges carefully along, easing his way towards the doorway. And answers. What he finds doesn't quite compute. A lone figure, in his study, sitting as comfortable as can be in his chair. Takes little notice of who, zeroing in on what.

Files.

That's what they were after.

Patient files.

He doesn't understand, standing there staring at the intruder. Can't comprehend why of all things there to take, why the files are the desired object. He doesn't skimp on the decor, has money stashed away in a safe, watches and cufflinks and even drugs tucked in drawers and cabinets. Surely there must be something of more value that what he's scribbles down during his sessions. Besides, a good number of his patients had recently vanished, some without a trace.

Doesn't matter, does it really?

"Those are confidential."

The words cut through the silent, cozy atmosphere his intruder seemed to be enjoying. Fists tighten, teeth grind, and he propels himself forward into the doorway. There's no way out unless she decides to go out the window (seven story drop, not advisable in his esteemed, professional opinion).

[Sabra]

With her feet up and comfortably stretched out in the good doctor's leather office chair, Sabra flicks through the pages of medical files with ease. For being a doc, his handwriting was surprisingly good and she is able to jot down her own notes. A timeline was forming, comprised of injuries and appointments, finally a trail to follow in these dark, briar infested woods. She whispers names under her breath--the names of those she knows to be dead now, rotting in unmarked graves or reported to the newspapers as accidental deaths. Bullets to the chest and teeth to the jugular happening to be very accidental type things.

Sabra knows better than that.

Somewhere here in the mountain of papers there are answers. It would only take a matter of time and her own wit to solve the puzzle. Logan could lend a helping hand. She might even be able to escape this madness, given miracle and enough determination. It wouldn't be nearly so hard to leave if not for James. She had been caught in a snare, unawares, when she had chosen to stay for breakfast that morning and not simply hightail it back home.

As much as Sabra tried to always prepare herself for the possible, life was still able to trip her up at times.

She can hear the doorknob being turned, the echo of someone's steps throughout the house and without missing a beat, wets the tip of her finger to flip to the next page in the file marked Henry Jacobsen. Apparently, the poor son of a bitch had had quite the case of erectile dysfunction. It was a good read, right up to the end when his regular visits stopped. September, 18th, 2011. Right after Nikolai Malik fell off the wall and all the king's men and all the king's horses couldn't put him back together again. Interesting.

Should have locked that door; oh well, nothing to do for it now.

The footsteps pick up pace, halting and then she can hear his breathing outside of the cracked door of the office. Sabra looks up to find an escape route, but there was nothing but the window and the long, long drop downwards that would make even a werewolf hesitate to jump. Unlike cats, they didn't always land with all four feet on the ground. The hinges creak open and the house's owner breaks her concentration. Sabra has just enough time to make a snide remark, "Yeah, the lock kinda tipped me off to that." Before he fills the door way, tall dark and damned creepy.

And that's saying something coming from a woman like her who has been around the block and seen a few things. She takes her muddy boots off his nice desk and sits up, pocketing her pen and notepad. "You're the doc, I'm guessin'?" The swivel chair allows her to do one of those traumatic turns that reveals the villain and their smirking face in TV shows. Life certainty was a matter of perspective. "I would have called and made an appointment, but I didn't have your number."

Of course, it was easy enough to find anyone in the phone book. Google could manage detective feats that would have once taken hours of coming through records at the library; the world was changing faster than she could keep up with. With a big smile and a slap to her thigh signalling the end of their meeting, Sabra stands up, gathering a few of the choice files to tuck under her arm. Meeting Myk's eyes required having to crane her neck back a good ways, but that was most folk and really, what did a doctor know about fighting?

"Well, lemme get outta your hair now, leave ya to your work." Sabra had no intentions of ending up as a cadaver. She crosses the room to stand before the doctor, waiting for him to politely step aside and let her walk through. The cuts required for quartering a hog were more or less the same for a person, but she had recently sighted in the pistol tucked in her waistband, and really, it wasn't any bother to her if there was one less quack in the world.

[Myk]

"Yeah, the lock kinda tipped me off to that."

As he stood there, facing off with the intruder, the doctor was struck by how faulty is logic has been up to this point. "It appears to have made little difference either way," he answers, mentally chastising himself as he does so. Should have called the police, should have stayed outside, should have at least collected a more effective weapon. Confronting the burglar (though spy seemed more apt a term, even if he wasn't privy to what she had been searching for) was a poorly thought out course of action.

"You're the doc, I'm guessin'?"

No answer is made besides a brief inclination of his head, which was debatable affirmation. There's a fraction a of second where he's distracted by the scuff marks left on his desk and the muddy boots she plants on his carpet. Something inside him bristles at the sight of it, something not him, something entirely abrasive and unnatural. The need for action which the beast insights in him is curtailed for the moment and he stands a little straighter.

"I would have called and made an appointment, but I didn't have your number."

Appraising her critically, Myk concludes that he has at least a foot and thirty pounds on the woman, but he knew a real threat when he saw one. There was no denying that this intruder was one. Plain and simple. It was in the ease with which she had broken in and sat at his desk as if it was her own and leafed through his private files and acts as if she had committed no wrong. Enough work with the troubled and the truly, and oft times criminally, insane had taught him to identify those who posed a problem or danger. And in some cases neutralize them if need be. Hence the syringe filled with the sedatives with which he struggled not to finger in his pocket.

Pauses for an unsettling second or two, before, "Yes. Well. I am quite certain that there are any number of capable mental health professionals within the Massachusetts state prison system that would be willing to assist with whatever ails you." Fingers of his right hand fish the cellphone out of his jacket pocket and the screen lights up as he brings the device to life with the simplest of touches. "No doubt they will accommodate you in the best way that they can." She stands and has the gall to bring with her a handful of patient files. Again, the beast rails against the offense that she's committed and even the good doctor himself grows white-knuckled.

"Well, lemme get outta your hair now, leave ya to your work."

Riled by her arrogance and his belief that he will let her simply go as if this whole thing never occurred, his jaws clenches and teeth grind. Meeting her eyes as she stares him down, his frown deepens considerably and his face darkens. The hand not occupied in the authorities snakes out and hooks onto the door frame, further blocking her only way out and making his response undeniably clear.

"Now. We can calmly sit down," indicates the desk and chair with his hand and the phone held in it, "and you can tell me precisely what you are doing and why you are doing it. Or you can explain it to the Boston Police Department."

In all honesty, he prefers the former option. Simply to end the conflict without the need for any more unwanted individuals blundering around his home and violating his living space, but also satisfy his own curiosity. And discover whether or whether not of his patient's have been put in danger by this little incident. If this was caused by some sort of personal or professional vendetta against one of his patients, decisive measures would be required.

Both against her and whoever had managed to drag him and the rest of his charges into their mess of shit.

"It's dialing." Had he a melodramatic bone in his body, he might have put it on speaker phone just so she could hear the awful tone. However, that would have required the doctor to take his eyes off her, a misstep if ever there was one. Instead, he settles for showing her the screen confirms the threat. Myk isn't one to bluff.

[Sabra]

Call it a product of being a wolf for more than a decade, having a nice pair of boobs, and a glare that could make the testicles of almost any man recede, but Sabra had fully expected Mr. Viteri to move aside and let her stroll right through the door. She could practically see him thinking, those cold clinical eyes looking her up and down, sizing her up no doubt.

He takes his time and all the while, the spot between her shoulder blade itches, rather it be the beast's intuition or her own, she knows something is wrong, a marked offness possessed only by those not in full control of themselves. It doesn't take Sabra long to pinpoint it, her victims usually carry the same madness with them, unable to cope with the presence of another sharing their souls and minds. Great, not only was he a doctor, but he was a doctor with issues.

And a superiority complex that becomes startling evident when he speaks. "Oh no, there ain't nothing for what ails me." Her mask of politeness falls and Sabra tightens her grip on the files at the appearance of the cellphone. So absorbed in the Boston pack's own justice system, the thought of having the police called hadn't really occurred to her, beyond the danger of nosy neighbors. Wolves were supposed to keep to themselves and shy away from the authorities, those that could lock them in cells and keep them trapped even when Mother Moon grew full and broke their bones and turned into monsters. "Seen many a man try though." She goads, reaching to brush her fingertips across the knife ever present on her hip. "Wolfsbane, silver, bullets..." Sabra doesn't give him the pleasure of stepping back or flinching when he smacks his palm against the door frame--effectively blocking any hopes of escape without a fight.

Jumping out the window is becoming a more and more tempting option with every passing second.

His fingers dash across the phone's screen and Myk turns it towards her, letting her stare down the barrel of the metaphorical gun. "Alright, alright," She holds her hands up, palms forward in the universal sign of surrender. After years of serving under many an egotistical alpha male, Sabra knew how to fake submissiveness very well. Her eyes are trained downward, shoulders loose and slumped. Let him think he had won so quickly, that she was a common criminal with a common criminal's extreme aversion to the cops. "I'll talk, just call off the hounds." Sabra had spent more than a few nights in a jail cell and she would prefer not to repeat the experience again. Even if it meant spilling the beans to a creepy doctor whose home she had just broken into.

Without turning her back on him, Sabra walks back to the desk and places the files down carefully, her thumb sliding across the tab with the name Murphy Grey on it. She takes a seat and restrains herself from putting up her feet again and muddying his pristine desk space.

"You have some interestin' patients. That how ya get changed? Patchin' up a wolf and get bitten." She queries, quirking a brow in an honest bit of curiosity. There were many who treated their furry side as some horrible secret to hide away, but Sabra had no such concerns, especially not with one of her own kind. In general, wolves were prickly creatures, resistant to questions and any efforts to peel away the how's and why's of their existence. "But we aren't here to talk about you. Spotlight's on me, eh?" Stalling. Mostly to piss him off and also to test how long it would take before he dialed 911 again and let it rang through this time.

Sabra runs a finger down the side of her nose, crossing her long legs in thought. "There's been a shift of power in the ranks of Boston, and I've just been followin' the crumb trail." A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she looks up to meet his eyes, stare him down and let the good doctor know that she had seen far scarier things than a man a little off his rocker and reeking of antiseptic.

"You just happen to have a whole pantry full. Ya keep good records, Doc, I'll give ya that."