do_what_thou_wilt | vengeance, a badge and a gun

Entry tags:

siren cove

vengeance, a badge and a gun

It's been a long day and it sits, restless, in Auryn's blood, waiting for a spark to set it off. It's raining, again; barely scraping 60 for however many days in a row. The asphalt's complaining about the late thaw and so are Auryn's neck and shoulders, reminding him that he was once a southern boy and he's at weird angles all day working on cars.

(Lately, it seems, Auryn can't even just shut up and get his work done. He's glad enough he hasn't been fired, after his and Davin's confrontation in Quill. He's happy not to make small talk -- he's usually taciturn and focused and he prefers it that way. But today he found himself explaining that yes, he does, actually, understand what "the only one who touches my car" means, and no, he doesn't know who the man with the sports car is, but Davin isn't available and he can schedule an appointment or Auryn can do the work himself right now. He'd gotten the keys, eventually, along with a death threat if there's so much as a rearview adjustment out of place.)

It's a good couple miles back to his little house in the woods, and he's tired and grumpy when he gets back there. It only darkens when he sees, just shy of his usual turn into the road, a tree splintered at the base and fallen across his path, accompanied by thick gouges in the mud, now filled with water, where a Jeep or maybe an ATV made a poor decision about where to infiltrate.

He takes a step into the flooded path to reach the tree, still hanging on on one side, and just crouches with his hand on it for a moment. There's nothing he can do, though: the damage has been done. All of a sudden he's just angry, angry at his own ineffectiveness and passivity, angry at other people and their arrogance, angry at how alone he feels in a place that was supposed to be some Holy Grail of witch communities. He balls up the fury painfully and pushes it out, lifting the tree and the water up out of the tracks to hover and throwing it all with force with a frustrated shout, coming down with a hard thud and bouncing a few feet away down the empty road.

The sudden whine of a siren, makes him freeze. He half turns to see a patrol car slow to a stop across the road. "Siren Cove Police. Stop right where you are,” the officer says as he gets out of the car, hand already on his gun. His partner’s a step behind.

"Hey, let's not do anything stupid --" Auryn says, taking a step and starting to spread his hands out concilatorily, and the officers both pull their weapons immediately. The one in front barks, eyes fixed,
"Hands on your head. Don't move."

Auryn can feel his heart hammering as he stares at two drawn handguns, but all he can manage in response is a cold glare, locking his fingers over his skull and resting them there; it occurs to him late that his hands are probably being considered weapons by the trigger-happy duo. It also occurs to him that in any other circumstance if he were to strike someone who pulled a gun on him it might be considered self defense.

The first of the two grabs him and twists his wrists back behind his back, pushing Auryn against the car. “I know my rights,” he spits at him as the officer cuffs him. “You can't do this."

"You might want to reread your legal codes," the other cop says. "You're in direct violation of Siren Cove law. Open and public display of magic."

"You can't arrest me for that."

"You're not being arrested," the other cop says, patting him down ungently. "You're being detained. But keep up the smart talk and I'm sure we can work something out." He makes a triumphant noise at the long multi-tool knife Auryn has on him, digging it out of his pocket. Auryn tries to twist back toward him, and is rewarded with a hand to the back of his neck, pressing his face against the car. "Keep your eyes and your hands to yourself, boy."

"The problem with this place," the other one says idly, holstering his weapon and digging out his notebook, "is that you witch types think it's some sort of Disneyland. A guy just wants to get some coffee, go to work, feed your family, and instead I spend all day running into freakshows from away who want to re-enact the damn Coombs curse. Come Midsummer it'll be a whole sideshow. Name and address."

"I'm not answering your questions."

"I know who you are, anyway," the other one says. "This is that O'Connor kid," he informs his partner from where he's got his hand against Auryn's back. "Works at the auto shop. Mike was in Quill the other day and heard him as much as admit to brainwashing everyone. I heard he's got some creepy-ass shack up here. Sounds like building without a permit to me, Mr. O'Connor."

"It's Auryn Connor," he growls. "I don't think you'll find much, if you want to go tramping through the woods looking for trumped up charges, be my guest."

"You staying at the motel, then?" The quieter of the two has already run him through the system.
"Yep," he says, tiredly.

"You have two prior unpaid citations for public magic use in Siren Cove and another for trespassing. Ring a bell?"

"If a law is unjust, a man is not only right to disobey it, he is obligated to do so."

"Not in this town." He gestures at the back of the car. "Auryn Connor, you're being arrested for open and public display of magic and destruction of public property, with failure to pay previous civil fines. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say -- and have said -- can and will be used against you. You have the right to appropriate representation..."
His voice fades dully as Auryn lets his head sink against the cruiser. This is not how he had planned his evening.

[OOC: Dated to this evening! Spot Auryn being brought in, be the employee who processes him or talk to him at the police station, run into him after he's released...]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The incident with Sarah on the boardwalk is already making Milo reconsider his decision to relocate back to Siren Cove. On the day of his parent's arrest he'd promised he would keep his magic under wraps, that he would never become what they became, that he would never ever use his powers on another witch like that.

But her magic had been on the brink of destroying the fragile control he holds, of blowing everything out of the water and stripping his nerves bare. It was the only thing he could think to do, to reach out and stop it, just for a minute, to absorb the chaos and twist it under his control, the control he's learned to have so tightly wound. He can still feel it humming under his skin, magic that isn't his, and he wonders what it felt like when his parents absorbed the magic and life of two witches, what it must be like to have another person's energy flowing in your veins.

These are the kind of thoughts he promised himself he'd never think. He was supposed to be better than this, but Siren Cove has him in old habits already, and it's with this in mind that he finds himself drawn towards the police station. He's not here to turn himself in. Sarah and Milo can deal with their issues without law enforcement, he hopes, and the last thing he needs is to end up sharing a cell with his parents. But he needs to try and see them, speak to them maybe, find out how they ended up down this path so he can make sure he never follows them.

He sees the cruiser rolling up and his first instinct is to duck his face, and then he remembers he's not a wanted man. The man in the cruiser however, is in exactly that position. Milo can feel the magic, recently used, recently expelled from someone like they were desperate to, and he can't help but try and peer into the car. All thoughts of seeing his parents have vanished; his attention is focused solely on the man being arrested, and he can't tell whether he wants to speak to him or consume him.

There's someone watching him when the cruiser rolls up, a curious onlooker or rubber-necker probably, and Auryn flicks his eyes over. The young man's eyes hold something else, something beyond curiosity, and he meets them as they roll past.

Then he's being urged on out of the car and he gets a proper look at the man. He's unpresuming, jeans and a jacket and hair the wildest thing about him, but the energy around him isn't: it's strong, and restless; it tugs, and Auryn finds himself drawn.

He meets his eyes obliquely. They're of a kind. One in a cage, and the other outside it.

"Keep moving," Cop 1 says, pushing him a little, and in response, Auryn flickers sparks from his fingers: not enough to hurt anyone, just a pretty warning to stop touching him. Not much to lose, in this position.

The stranger meets his eyes and Milo feels a sudden urge to incapacitate the policemen so that they can run and talk. He's never met anyone who could understand the darkness vibrating constantly under his skin, but he feels like maybe this man can. Still, he's not so curious that he's lost his mind, so he stays back, and when the man sparks a little magic, he finds himself smiling.

He'll get coffee, he decides, and then come back. If he's right, a man like that won't be held for long, and he can catch him as he's leaving.

Milo gives it an hour, grabs two coffees and sits on a bench outside the station, waiting. It's not the weirdest whim he's ever had, but it's close.

It feels like it takes a century to get through booking - mug shot, fingerprints, processing -- but Auryn's not stupid enough not to comply once he's in there. He speaks to processing quietly and calmly, neutralizes his accent, lets it come out on "sirs" and "ma'ams" and smiles deferentially at the admins. Eventually he's released with a signed agreement to show up in court.

He hates police departments. The whole, poisoned system of privilege they maintain in every shuffle of paperwork, but also the fluorescent lights and the pretentious wall hangings.

He gets his belongings back -- except a poison ring he was wearing, and his knife, both of which they hold for some kind of evidence in the hearing, and both of which are entirely mundane; it pisses him off -- and heads out the door. He could kill someone for a cigarette, and he's grateful to see those, at least, weren't taken off him.

He's lighting one when he sees the young man from earlier sitting on the bench out front, watching. With coffee, and Auryn lets that all percolate, regarding him and the way his energy bends the air. Lets himself be drawn off course.

"That's a lot of coffee you've got there."

He's starting to think this was probably a stupid idea when the man reappears coming out of the station, heading straight towards him. Milo stubs out his own cigarette, standing up and holding out the extra cup of coffee.

"Thought you might need it," he says with a shrug. "Rough day?"

Auryn glances at the coffee, bemused, and accepts it after a second. It's a risky way of making friends, if that's his goal at all. But he likes that boldness, and the young man's seething power intrigues him. "You're not wrong," he answers. He feels tired down to his bones right now.

"Most days that end in handcuffs are," Auryn smirks. "Didn't start out too fantastic, to be honest." He takes a slow sip of the warm drink. "Sure you want to be seen having coffee with an alleged criminal?" A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

It's still warm enough, luckily. The gesture probably wouldn't have gone down so well with cold coffee. He finishes the rest of his own and lobs it into a trash can outside the station before shrugging.

"It's practically what they expect of me, at this point." Milo's basically an alleged criminal himself, or a criminal in waiting, or something else ridiculous. He hasn't done anything, but he knows that now that he's home, they're all just waiting for him to slip up. "What'd they arrest you for?"

Auryn tilts his head a little, curious. Granted, by the time he was a teenager he's pretty sure half the county police had been waiting for an excuse to arrest him. "I believe the official title is Public Display of Magic," he says with scorn. He doesn't think that's too risky a suggestion, what with the guy basically admitting he's an outlaw, or something, and with the energy around him. Auryn's not about to trust him with any secrets, but he's not too afraid the man's going to freak out over him being a witch. "Sounds like a fireworks show to me, but I didn't make the law."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Got frustrated and threw a tree in front of the wrong people on the wrong day. Unfortunately nothing to go down in legend. Add some unpaid citations for more of the same and there it is, the perfect storm." He quirks an eyebrow. "They can fine me, put me in jail. Even if I had the money, I'm not going to pay a tax on what comes naturally." He might as well start with the controversial viewpoint and work backwards.

"So what's your story?" he asks. "Sounds as though the police aren't your biggest fans."

He'd forgotten what that was like, the laws against public magic. He's spent so long away from this town, where magic isn't something people even believe in let alone outlaw, that he has to remember to keep himself in check here even with normal magic.

He glances towards the station briefly, the plan to see his parents all but erased. Now that he's thinking a little more clearly and the magic has stopped trying to climb out of his skin, he doesn't know what he was thinking throwing himself back in there. If he's got any chance of making it now that he's back, he's got to distance himself from them completely.

"They're all hopped up waiting to arrest me for something I haven't done yet." The first visit had been his first day back in town, the cop who'd arrested his parents come knocking to give him a warning. Like he was back to pick up where they left off and needed to be stopped before he could start.

Hana supposes that it makes her a traitor the way she's thrown her lot in with the witches less and less with each passing incident. It was witches who'd tried to force her to change herself. It was witches who had been so often disinterested in communicating with her. It was witches who had trapped her in a fairytale and taken her voice and memories without her consent.

How can she stand by that. She's in the waiting room, working on filling out some forms to prove that she's not a driving liability if she ever chooses to get a car. When a witch comes out looking sour, righteous indignation rolling off of him so thoroughly that she doesn't even have to use her powers to read the tantrum he's throwing.

Serves you right, she signs, assuming he won't have bothered to learn it.

Righteous indignation is sort of a nice word for it, really. It's what's on top - I shouldn't be here, if someone had rolled that log rather than lifted it nothing would have happened, kids destroyed a living tree but I'm the one with a gun pointed at my head - but under it there's a hatred of police regardless of magic and the nauseous, gripping memory of other, far away stations.

This place reminds him too much of being eight years old. Begging over and over to go home.

He clamps down on that fear, shoves it under a shell of nonchalance when he sees someone looking at him. She's small, but her power comes off her in waves, and though he has no idea what she's signing, it hits him with a blast of satisfied hostility echoed in her eyes.

He stares at her, expression melting from perplexed to cold. He hasn't done anything to her and he has no time for witches who'd rather he be proprietous.

He gestures across the counter, shakes his head, points to his eyes and waves in her direction. He doesn't know sign language - he's never had anyone to learn from - but it's a mime that should be obvious. They can't see your magic. She's one to talk.

His emotions make for a powerful cocktail and Hana sorts and samples each one. The fear. The almost childlike terror. Nausea of emotion rather than in the belly. Hatred again, related to something uncertain and primal. Hana almost sympathizes before he cuts her off with a hard wall and rude expression.

She's not proper, but Hana's had her fill of people acting as though they are inherently superior because they have an ability that others lack. Raising her hands again, Hana starts to reply and then closes her hands into fists and sets them down again.

Instead, her reply comes in a thin thread of mixed emotions only he can feel: resentment, rejection, disgust at magical arrogance, intense distrust for anyone that holds himself above others because of his abilities. The emotions are abstract but, put together, they make a clear picture.

She's angry, and he really doesn't know what he's done, except be. Here, so she knows that he's accused of something, he supposes, but even that's not particularly obvious. Is her hatred for magic-users, for her own kind, so intense that it doesn't even matter who he is? It could be.

He's hit by a stream of emotion so intense and bitter that at first he doesn't know where it comes from; an overload that seems like they've bubbled up from within, many-colored and overwhelming. Then it sorts, along with the shift of energy, and he realizes it's not resentment he's created for himself, but directly from her. They're a language. Psychic evocation. The power's not only intense, but specific. Disgust, not just in general but aimed at a specific action.

His first, instinctive feeling is protest, and then resignation as he files her into the category of people he can't trust. He doesn't think he's better than anyone. His mother was human, and he holds his memories of her with more reverence than he does some deities. But those who hate and fear real magic are the majority and they wield it like a knife. They mask the history of magic in fairy tales and legends. For centuries they've repressed and shamed and outlawed what used to be natural. He thinks that he should be able to do what he can do, be who he is publicly, like anyone else, if it's not hurting someone. Instead he lives in a place where guns are normal and levitating a book or coaxing life from a plant is suspect.

He doesn't know how much she can feel, if she can feel anything from him, whether she can read his mind entirely or not, but once Auryn's started on this point it's hard to get him to stop. His emotions feel raw, tangled too much with memory in this awful room, and he tries to protect them even as they won't go away. Anger and pain, loss and justification, the overwhelming willingness to give all he has to be free. All he has is his magic. He doesn't expect anything else to stay.

The rawness of the emotion hits her and agitates her own power. Hana feels queasy, hit with the complexity of his own feelings. Betrayal fires back at him, not actually directed at him, but the memory of the ways magic users have betrayed her. Her own family, people like Nerium, people who use magic as an excuse to bully past what they see as her deficits. But she's projecting. Literally projecting.

It's hard to keep track of what her feelings are and what she's absorbing from him. Hurriedly, Hana hurries out the door and takes a long breath of air, trying to steady herself. Quickly she pulls out her phone and wheels around on the other guy, holding out a text that says, "We need to talk. With words. Quill."

If he chooses to follow her, maybe they can figure out...She hates starting fights, despite the fact that she's lately become so good at it. She needs to at least try...

The feeling of betrayal hits hard, makes him feel a little off-kilter, like he should be apologizing. But it's less direct and a little messier than the first one. Auryn feels dizzy with the emotional exchange. He's too tired, too full of mixed memories and feelings to know what she's trying to tell him, and it's sending him off balance. If he were less exhausted and angry right now he might be able to put up something like a shield, though he's never been able to handle mental magic as well as physical.

He wonders if she knows the weapon she wields. Her magic almost by its nature doesn't get prior permission from the recipient to be felt, and it's invisible. A blast of well-timed, subtle loathing or sorrow could do a lot of damage. He's strong -- admittedly not at his best right now -- and he's caught off-guard by it. She'd be one hell of a friend to have at a party, though.

Auryn rubs his head as she heads out, and looks up startled when she whirls on him. He blinks at her text and glances up at her, warily. He gives the counter a gesture of a nod and gives her a "5 minutes" sign with his hand.

The admin calls him up shortly, and he signs a bunch of papers agreeing to show for his court date, and is released on his own recognizance.

It's not far to Quill. He feels like once he gets home, he might sleep for a million years, but he's still steeled himself a little more when he comes in the door, casting around for the girl.

As he shows up, Hana's putting the finishing touches on a long note that she's written in anticipation of the conversation. She gestures to a cappuccino sitting in front of the empty chair next to hers, a peace offering if ever there was one. Then she switches to her texts and types before setting her phone down and signing, My name is Hana. H-A-N-A. Hana. Then she holds up her phone to show an unsent text that reads the same message.

Then she switches to the long note: I'm sorry. I usually have better control over my powers than that. I would never use empathy on others like that, normally. You were keyed up and I was keyed up and I acted wrongly.

I have a bad history with witches. Yes, my own kind. People who use magic flagrantly as a shortcut, no matter how much it hurts others. It's been done to me, many times, long before the mass spell that took everyone's memories and replaced them.

I shouldn't have lashed out at you.

There's not an apology for her feelings, only the way she'd misused her own powers toward him.

Auryn spots her and sits down; he manages a tight smile at the cappuccino and gives her a respectful nod in thanks. His demeanor's polite, though not exactly friendly, given that she's been an aggressor so far. He's not sure what she wants, what's expected of him, and working that out is usually the first thing he tries to do, whether he grants that or not.

He watches the movement of her hands, the repeated gesture. This, at least, is something he's good at: memorizing what he's shown, learning new things. When he looks at the text, he nods slowly and tries, clumsily to repeat it. H, A, N, A. .

Auryn pulls out the little notebook he keeps in his coat pocket, full of jotted notes, drawings, results -- and flips to a blank page. He isn't a technophobe, but he dislikes the tether of cell phones and doesn't have the cash for them besides. He has one, for work and emergencies: it's a little flip phone paid in minute cards with a Montana area code that's a souvenir of the last time he had someone he cared enough to be kept track of for, but its ability to text is slow and clunky. AURYN, he writes out, neat spaced out caps, but the only letter he knows of those are the A and the N, and he makes an A sign back at her with a wry expression.

He reads her note, leaning over his coffee, and takes it in. He glances at her and nods, wondering who's hurt her. He can guess it has something to do with her speech, but that seems so foreign to him. His defense of witches isn't exclusive of defending others who are discriminated against.

Auryn winces, a little, at the mention of the mass spell. It was never intended as a binding spell, like some sort of game with others' lives, but wild magic is a power much stronger than any witch has at their beck and call and they'd intended to free it. Here, it's stronger, and it's been repressed for a long time. What happened was the chaos of living in a magical world. He regrets it, but he doesn't know her well enough yet to feel responsible for a personal apology. He tried that with Davin and he had it thrown in his face.

He scribbles, tilting the page so she's able to see as he writes. Thank you. You don't owe me an apology. But I appreciate it. He adds, with a curious smile, You have a lot of power. If you sense as well as you project, I'm sure I wasn't too pleasant to be around either.

I'm sorry that you've been hurt through other's laziness and cruelty. I can't undo that, but I understand why you're angry. He pauses, and goes on, I hope you understand, then, how I feel about some of those without magic. My life has been repeatedly torn apart by those who fear and hate witchcraft or believe it to be devil's work. I don't think I'm better than anyone, but I don't agree with laws that cast us as different, our abilities and needs something to suppress. What I was brought in for today did no harm. It's the fear of what I could do and my lack of shame in my abilities that could have put me in jail.

When he tells her his name, Hana patiently signs A-U-R-Y-N, one at a time.

Then he writes and Hana waits, distinctly less patient this time. It's no fault of his own but Hana hates doing this kind of thing by notebook. Texting can take time, but it's still faster than the cumbersome process of handwriting and then reading. She clears out her note while she waits, ready to begin her response.

They may as well be pen pals, minus any actual delight in the process.

As she reads it, her opinion of him softens a little, though Hana has a harder time excising the excess of pride and cruelty that seems to come with old magic, accustomed to getting its way.

I meet people all the time who can't be bothered to communicate with me because I'm deaf. Because I have a phone, they figure it means they don't have to do any of the work. Human, witch, siren. But it's witches that I've run into most who say we've been forced to hide by humans. They want to go back to covens and ruling houses but so many of them never bother to learn how to talk to me.

Sirens and humans have learned sign language for me a lot more readily than witches, sometimes.

Pausing, she has a hard time with the next part but given the raw, emotional honesty she's thrown at him, Hana owes him the verbal truth as well.

My parents are powerful witches. They told me to use magic or surgery to "fix" my deafness or to leave home."

He mimics it back at her, a little more messily than her neat spelling, twice. Names are powerful, and he'd rather be able to have control of his in any language. The silent gesturing makes him think of his father, a little, in a vague way that has more to do with things he thinks he knows about Marines than things he actually remembers. The way most of the blanks in his memories are filled in with supposition.

He can tell she's annoyed and fidgety as he writes and lets her read, but it's not his fault that everyone in this town comes with the newest iPhone and he doesn't, and he doesn't allow himself to feel bad about the fact that he can write in his mismatch of cursive faster than he can text.

He reads her text back, carefully, pen still resting on the page. You should try not having a phone, he jokes, and gives her a halfsmile to let her know he's joking, reading on.

We have historically been forced to hide by humans. But covens and ruling houses aren't any better than humans who try to throw money at a problem. Magic isn't something meant for our beck and call, a technology or a lifestyle. It's a gift we have access to, beyond our being. It's a mistake to . . . He shakes his head and waves a hand, drawing a frustrated line to indicate his dissatisfaction with his own communication and tries to rephrase, thinking.

He looks up when she pauses, and furrows his brow a little, reading when she shows him. He's sure if she's trying, the flare of confusion and then indignance that floods him will be evident. That’s not what magic’s for. Sure, he does little stupid things like light his cigarettes with fire. But that’s not innate change. So your parents throw both magic and money at problems?

That's awful he adds.

Auryn owes her more honesty after that admission, and he chews on the inside of his lip. I was taken away from my parents when I was eight. Babysitter found ritual knives in our home, pagan symbols. Finally had something they could do about our being different. Destroy it. He wraps his right hand around his necklace as he writes, pressing the edges of the tags into his palm unthinking. One set of fosters tried to Save me. Taught me what would happen come judgement...I don't think it worked.

His jaw is set. I can't imagine parents willingly pushing away their child, no matter how many times I see it, he admits.

I'm sorry is one of her favorite signs. The closed fist making circles over the heart is so simple and yet apparent in the way it indicates sympathy for the other's heartache.

So in a way, magic has cost them both family. Hana sighs and leans back, typing rapidly on her phone, hating that such a stilted method is the only way for them to have this conversation. Long minutes sitting and waiting as her mind translates this conversation from ASL's grammar into that of English. English still comes secondary to her.

None of my family know sign language. They made our cook interpret because she learned. Or they used cell phones and notepads and wondered why I stopped having anything to say.

Sometimes, it feels like the whole world is a cake. When you're hearing or able-bodied or whatever, you have access to the whole cake. I only have access to the slice of the cake that's made of people who are willing to learn my language. Then the slice of cake of people who understand my language and my powers is even smaller. By the time you get to witches who speak my language that like me...I'm down to a petit-four.

And it seems to me that the people who talk about the superiority of magic are always the ones who don't bother with me. They want to have their cake and eat it too. But I only get a nibble.

It's a weirdly appropriate metaphor, she finds. After he reads, she holds up a hand to pause him so that she can clear her note and write anew.

So the witches...the arrogant ones. I don't like them. They turn this town into their personal plaything and it's supposed to be on behalf of our kind but I end up with nonconsensual amnesia, sewing nettles until my hands ache.

And when I felt your emotions at the station, it felt like you were one of the people who'd take part in that kind of thing, proudly. I got angry.

He doesn't know the sign, but both her slight emphasis and the very nature of the gesture makes it apparent. He shrugs with a tight smile and waves his hand abruptly from left to right; not sign language but a clear mime for it's done, it doesn't matter.

He takes a long drink of cappuccino as she types and watches her, clearly a little frustrated with having to talk to him in longform. It makes him wish he knew more of the language she preferred; he feels stupid and hates it. Auryn can understand why people have tried to communicate with her using magic; it'd be faster for her and easier for him to try to beef up her existing powers to actual telepathy or something else. But that ignores the fact that she can speak already, has a language that he just doesn't know. Besides, he's not entirely sure what she'd hear, if she heard someone's thoughts in words. Would it even make sense when her language is visual?

He reads when she shows him, and makes a face at the paragraph about her family, though he feels a little guilty for being yet another person who doesn't just know sign language and requires notebooks and cell phones. Not that he's had the opportunity to learn it, ever, and he thinks that earns patience, but he's not known for his.

Auryn has no idea what a petit-four actually is except something that fancy people eat, but he can get the idea from the word petite, and he nods, waiting for her to finish. He chews on his lip and looks at her evenly at the next part.

I did, he writes, because they're being honest, and holds up a placating hand, but it's her choice if she wants to read on.

I didn't know what was going to happen. None of us did. We wanted to free magic, we wanted it to be unbound. It wasn't meant to be a game with humans, or witches, anyone. To bind anyone's mind. Just to live as one with magic around us.

We were arrogant. But not because we-- He strikes it out, because he's not sure of that with Nerium and Aoife. Not because I think I'm superior over humans. Or other witches. We were arrogant in that we thought we could control that level of spell. Just as the laws here can only play at it. Magic is not something we bind. Witches think that they control it, but we're vessels. This place is full of energy and the longer it is repressed, the more chaotic what escapes will be.

I'm sorry he scribbles, and echoes her gesture, looking at her. For the wrong done. We were foolish.

He doodles a cake quickly and draws up totally uneven slices, scribbling words around the big and littler slices. Rich, poor, able and otherwise, educated, uneducated, white, black, asian, Latino, men, women... the list goes on. Above that, to indicate the same categories for both: Humans. Monstrous. He then circles them all with an underline and draws another cake and an arrow to it from the circle. This is all I want he writes. Not my own cake. Not a bigger slice. Just the same one. But people will die to keep from giving a tiny share of theirs. They'll kill, hurt, make you hate yourself. You don't get what you're owed by being passive.

This type of conversation is easier for shorter conversations, the How do you do? I'm Hana. I use sign language, but I can text if I have to :) But this is a real, important conversation, something with gravit to it. Their philosophy. Even if her empathy could play well with telepathy, it would be all lost in translation, him trying to mine out My parents kicked me out from Parents make leave. Past.

His honesty inspires more respect than ire, after the previous words. The recognition of his own intentions, separate from those of those damn Coombses and Grimhildes, and failings goes further. They aren't the first witches to think they're masters and not vessels. She only hopes that he'll have more respect for that, as she's had to learn as a conduit for her own and others' emotions. And, she hopes, more respect for the humans who are even more powerless to stop such an onslaught.

I can't blame mortals for being scared, she types. They live in a town where people can see their thoughts or summon forces of nature. I could reach out and make you feel emotions that aren't your own. Witches and sirens have defenses; they don't. It doesn't make their persecution right, but I can understand why they're scared.

The question is how do they even move forward from that? Hana doesn't know.

Everyone wants their cake and their rightful share. Shit goes badly once they notice their slice is smaller. Hana nods at his diagram and then sighs.

This metaphor is making me hungry. For emphasis, she cups her hand and swings it from sternum to stomach, indicating hunger.

He sighs a little and nods reluctantly.

I'm not sure there's any more to fear from us really than there are from them, he writes. Humans can do enough to each other on their own, and having the ability to prevent it doesn't make it stop. He lifts his father's dogtags. He respects soldiers, and even the necessity of fighting, sometimes. He doesn't love war. But maybe that's why they're scared.

He takes a long breath. I can't forgive what's been done. To me, to others. He tends to doodle as he writes and others is illustrated with a fire drawn around it. But I can understand it.

Auryn smirks at shit goes badly. No kidding. He gestures in a mine! way, hands clenched and pulled toward himself. He wonders what he's saying in sign language, if anything. But it's her next admission that makes him actually smile, and he mimics the hungry sign, nodding. He hasn't eaten today. Being arrested kind of messed up dinner.

You want something? I owe you. He draws an arrow from owe to where his coffee cup sits. Auryn counts his debts carefully, but trading food is one of the easiest to deal with. Their pastries are good.

Hana personally thinks that that's why they're so afraid. History is full of ordinary humans without supernatural powers who have done horrific things. It's frightening to think of what might happen if a witch decides to try his hand at being a maniacal despot. It's often troubling.

But on a small scale, at least, peace has been made between the two of them and Hana hopes he'll forgive her waspish behavior. She doesn't know what's gotten into her lately; it must be all the judgmental family genes activating or something, like a mutant power.

Smiling, she nods and takes the pen to scribble out I LOVE their cheesecake. She attempts to doodle a raspberry but it comes out looking more like a cloud from a Don Hertzfeld cartoon.

Auryn isn't an empath, but the conversation has settled into comfortable debate rather than frustrated manifesto, and he appreciates that; that they can come to terms with each other. The conversation has been emotionally charged, but it's calmed him down as well to find someone he can actually talk to about it. The energy he can generally sense around, especially more powerful witches is less frenetic around her.

He grins at the doodle and gives her a thumbs up. Right back, he scribbles, and returns with a slice of raspberry cheesecake for her and a brownie for himself, putting her plate down first and sitting.

He glances up over a bite of brownie and scribbles, Would you teach me some ASL, sometime? Learning probably takes a long time :( but talking would be faster. She had no reason to keep talking to him, and he appreciates that she did: he'd like to be able to with some regularity.

Hana grins ear to ear at the sight of the cheesecake, one of her very favorite desserts. It's wonderfully paradoxical, made from something that's typically savory instead of sweet and, by composition, more like a custard pie than a cake. Dense, rich, and sweet, easy to make and rather more difficult to master.

She thanks him by sending a spark of cheer his way, not enough to alter his mood but give him scope of her own. It's an invitation, not an order.

Touching her chin with her fingertips, she waves her hand down and then repeats the gesture before writing down Lesson 1: Thank You.

Since he doesn't seem to use a phone, Hana uses her own and pulls up a few useful titles to start, showing them to him.

Hana's grin is contagious and he grins back. He can feel a little nudge of lifted mood, just brushing up against his senses and clearly hers, and even though it's not meant to affect his mood it does, pleasantly, in the way that being around someone happy always has that ability.

He watches her sign and glances at the paper. He steals the pen back and scribbles sideways, how do you say, you're welcome?

Auryn leans to look at the phone studiously, noting abbreviated titles of things he should look up, and looks over at her. He signs thank you more directly to her with a little nod. Not just for the sign language. For the conversation, and the time.

She smiles again and shakes her head, making a sign for it's nothing before scribbling down on his paper. No sign for that. Just sign stuff like 'no big deal' or 'it's nothing. She shows him a couple options for the sign, shrugging.

When he signs thank you, Hana returns the gesture. It might be a point of pride that she sticks with sign language, but she's still grateful whenever someone is willing to learn.

It's strange starting a fight and finishing with a new friend.

The only reason that Lena likes to hang out near the police station because how beautiful the building photographs, honestly honestly. Every other kind of curiosity (she blames Jacob for that) is ignored.

Still she can't help but gasp when someone leaves the building, carrying himself in a way that makes clear that he isn't part of the authorities. He's go the dark and handsome down, and oh - do he and the building make a pair.

So go ask him for a picture, she tried to push herself. Go.

Auryn just wants to get out when he leaves -- it's been an age of shuffling through process and his cheekbone still aches a little where it was pushed against the car, so if he's a little brisk, he can be forgiven, he thinks. Marinating in that much enforcement of the status quo itches.

He notices he's being watched, though, and he spots the girl, standing a few feet away. At first he bristles, presuming that any stare is with judgement, but after a second he realizes she's just looking, and he gives her a little nod.

"So-" There was no need to say sorry, Lena wasn't doing anything wrong, she was allowed to be here.

Still, she took a step back, making sure that he had room to pass, and wouldn't feel like her fumbling with her camera bag meant she was going to photograph him without consent.

Levi didn't usually bother with processing. It wans't part of his job and it resulted in more paperwork which he had enough of anyway. He tried to pay attention to anything that might need some special attention though, times when the less understanding members of the SCPD might make a bigger issue out of things or make something worse than it already is.

It was impossible to miss the thoughts of the two patrolmen and the person they brought it. The patrolmen were resigned but the kid was pissed. Levi knew that it was possible that this kid didn't really need to have the hammer brought down on him. Then again, maybe he did.

Grabbing the kids file from a nearby desk, Levi thumbed through it before heading toward the desk where the kid was about to be processed.

"Hey, I know you guys are busy and almost done with your shift," Levi told the two men. "I've still got a few hours. Why don't you let me get this one?"

The two men were more than happy to leave the problem in Levi's lap, thanking him before heading to the break room.

"Mr. O'Connor, why don't we step over to my desk," Levi said, unlocking the kid's cuffs. "I'm Detective Astor. Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee or a towel? It's coming down pretty hard out there."

The man's sudden interest in him makes Auryn suspicious, a little, in his indignant state of being, but he's fully surrounded by cops and he's tired, and he doesn't feel up to doing anything stupid. Besides, not having to look at the guys who just pulled guns on him and went on a monologue about freakshows anymore actually does mollify him a little.

Why don't we is not a question, here: it wasn't when his high school principal said it, and it certainly isn't from a detective, but Auryn's more than happy to have his cuffs removed, and he stretches his hands reflexively. It's only when the detective's close enough to get them off him that he feels it - the tell-tale accumulation of extra energy around witches. He can't really do anything with it, he just knows enough to sense it. His is weird though. Not just low-key. Sort of jittery and stifled. Auryn's not sure if he should be really worried about that, or more relaxed.

"Water'll dry," he says dismissively. "But I won't say no to a cup of coffee, if you're getting one, Detective."

Levi heard the young man sense that he was a witch. It happened on occasion, wards and the like used to detect witches picked up on him. So far he had been lucky to avoid anyone really putting it together. Fortunately now he had an even better option to explain it all away.

"Sure, I'll be right back, just have a seat," Levi said, pointing to a chair opposite his desk as he went to get two cups of coffee. Fortunately it had been a slow day and his head wasn't pounding too hard at the moment so he didn't need anything stronger than caffeine to help dull the pain. Also fortunately for Mr. O'Connor was that even the Police Department in Siren Cove had good coffee.

"I understand you've been made aware of your rights. Am I waiting for an attorney to arrive or do I need to get one for you?" Levi asked, handing the coffee to the man as he sat down.

Auryn sits down, upright on the edge of the chair, one knee bouncing in restless energy, and looks around a little. It's not unlike other police departments he's been in, busy and officey, but it's a little nicer. The obligatory small palm in the corner is better looking; the desks are more attractive.

He can smell the coffee as Detective Astor comes over, and he nods a "thank you," as he's handed the cup, taking a long sip. He's not the most tired, or the most cold and damp, or sore, that he's ever been. He's hitchhiked through places like South Dakota and Colorado on his routes cross country. But it doesn't mean a little bit of ease to it isn't welcome.

Auryn glances up in surprise at the detective's question. Every other of the several times he's been arrested or detained, he's been questioned as harshly and thoroughly as possible until he decided to clam up. Having it assumed that he'd want a lawyer on hand is a courtesy he doesn't expect. (It's also, maybe, a mark of a town where half the families have attorneys on retainer for when their respective scions get a little too rowdy.)

"I'd appreciate that."

"I'll right, give me a moment," he said, picking up the phone at his desk to place a call. With such a small town it was easy to get in touch with someone that could come down to the station right away. It was also easy for Levi to make sure he could contact someone that would give the kid a fair shake. Not everyone wanted to defend people for public use of magic as vigorously as they should.

"Alright, I've got someone coming. You don't have to talk until they're here. You probably shouldn't, actually. But I'll lay out what I want to talk about. I want to hear about your prior convictions and the circumstances surrounding what happened this time. Depending on how things go your lawyer and I might be able to bust this down to something when you're done it will just be served with community service or go away all together."

Auryn nods in thanks, spinning the ring on his index finger in consternation as the detective takes care of placing him a public defender. Possibly, in this town, one that specializes in this stuff, though he's loathe to expect that.

Auryn nods in understanding. "I understand," he says. To be honest, his prior citations are little and stupid; it's more that he doesn't care about being subtle about his magic, doesn't agree with the fines, and doesn't have the money to pay them if he did. "I'll wait on my attorney," he agrees, figuring he might as well take advantage of the right.

"Why are you helping me?" Auryn asks overtly. Sure, he senses the magic the man has, but from the feel of it he either doesn't know it's there, or he's repressing it altogether. He's chosen to work for law enforcement and Auryn's broken that law. There's no reason he has to be kind.

"You've been charged with a crime, Mr. O'Connor, not stripped of your humanity. The law only works if we view people with human decency and treat them accordingly. Also, it's the right thing to do."

Levi had gotten the disbelief from people before and was fairly used to it. He couldn't really blame them, especially not in a place like Siren Cove where the population could be rather biased, one way or another. It wasn't unusual to find people wanting a witch freed just because they were a witch and were convinced the law was coming down too harsh on them, even if they were guilty.

That and Levi had looked into the eyes and mind of people that were evil. Auryn O'Connor wasn't evil. At most he was a punk, more likely he was just someone expression his beliefs in a less-than-legal way.

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