((ooc: I'm assuming that Hunter will eventually post in Declaration of War again, and I'm assuming that Calley will use Ouroboros in that thread. With those assumptions in mind... this takes place after that thread, by about two days.

The dog is from Heartworm.))

Calley was curled up behind the wheel of a beat-up old driveway dirt colored rust bucket Volvo with a spacious back seat. He hadn't stolen a car, thank you. He'd bought it. For about $500, which he was starting to suspect was too much. It ran. He could see the road running beneath him through a rust spot on the floor on the passenger's side, but it ran. Since he didn't have insurance, a license that wasn't proudly declaring him of legal drinking age, or basic driving experience, he wasn't so sure that the rust spot was at the top of his list of worries while driving.

His fingers drummed the wheel lightly. Then not-so-lightly. Then, after a brief pause, he punched his hand into the horn as hard as he could. There was a wheezing swonk from the car, and an unsatisfying jolt up his arm. Calley shook his hand out. Looked at it. The knuckles were turning red, and he could tell from the unwilling way that it was responding to his commands of movement that it wasn't so happy with him. It was dully throbbing.

Dully.

Too dull.

Calley sunk a little further down into the set, in a slacker's attempt to stay out of sight. He'd parked here at dusk. It was now well after dark, and the lights in the house down the street were just starting to do interesting things. Like turn off, room by room, in a wave towards the door. The garage light flicked on. The kitchen light flipped off. A car started, and backed out of the driveway.

Bingo. Calley thought, with little to no enthusiasm. It's what he'd been waiting hours for: the house's single owner to leave. Calley didn't know where the guy was going. He didn't particularly care. He hadn't even known that the man would leave tonight. And if the guy hadn't? Meh. He probably would have stayed in the car until morning. Maybe afternoon. Maybe night again. Calley really couldn't be bothered with caring about much of anything right now, especially the finer details of how he wasted his time. It was just as easy to be miserable here as anywhere else.

The night was starting to creep towards Winter's chill, but it was still distinctly Autumn. Lukewarm. A scream-worthy lack of anything remarkable drifted on the pleasant air. There was just enough of a breeze that the air wasn't still, but not enough to move the leaves on the trees. There was the occasional chirp of a late cricket, but no mind-drowning symphony of noise. Calley felt a little like screaming himself, except that he knew it would only make things worse: then he'd hear how dim his last resort of noise really was.

Doctor Ingram had called it "Sensory Withdrawal."

For the past two weeks, ever since he'd taken on that heartworm-ridden dog form, Calley hadn't just been Calley. He'd been... so much more. There had been at least three of him, at any time. Three splinters. Three sets of sensory input. Usually, there'd been a lot more--ten, twenty. Hundreds. It had felt so natural. Seeing from so many angles at once; tasting the air while he tasted a sandwich while he tasted that weird piece of lint in his pocket. Hearing in surround-sound like you wouldn't believe. Smelling... so many things, in so many ways. What a cat smelled and what a human smelled and what a mouse smelled were such very different things, in a way he wouldn't even try to explain. And the textures... oh God. Wind through his air. Over bare skin. Over feathers. The feeling of blood circulating all around him, of the regular beat of a heart--his heart! He missed the textures the most. Touch. Some animals lacked taste and sound and smell and hearing, but touch... touch was universal. He was going to go insane if this kept up much longer.

It was Autumn and warm, but he could only feel it through one set of skin. He was wearing an overly large dark gray wool sweater that did not match the temperature. It was the warmest, scratchiest thing he could find. It was practically rubbing his arms raw. He was sitting in a self-induced sauna. But someone else could have been the one overheating in a sweater, for all he could care. The feeling was so... small. Distant. Muted. One set of sensory input. One measly set of sensory input. How had he ever survived on one set of sensory input? He couldn't even see what was going on behind his own head, for goodness sake. He could only locate where a noise was coming from by comparing the lag time of the sound between one ear and the other. Two ears. Two. He might as well be deaf. Food was tasteless. The air was scentless. And this sweater could have been thin air for all he could tell the difference. It was all just so... meh.

Doctor Ingram had said it was most likely a natural failsafe against overexerting himself. Ouroboros had left his mind feeling like a raw sloshing of beef fresh from a blender. Some failsafe. Nice of it to kick in after he'd gone overboard.

Oh God. Ouroboros...

Click, said Calley's mind. It was an unhappy click. A grinding-gears click. A 'DENIED' click, with 'PACKAGE RETURNED TO SENDER' stamped all over it. So maybe he'd tried to shift to Ouroboros just then. So what? He needed it. He needed something. Something more than a scratchy sweater he couldn't feel. Something more than just one single individual form. Stupid failsafe.

The house owner's car was well off down the street. Calley opened the door of his crappy Volvo, and started slinking down the street towards the newly darkened house. Not because he really cared. Just because he'd cared at one point, and right now, there wasn't much difference to him between an illegally driven Volvo and blatant burglary.

The house wasn't derelict, but it wasn't kept up, either. It was a big boxy lump of meh. Calley stopped outside of it for a moment, huddling in his sweater with a shiver. He was overheating, sure. But he was also experiencing honest-to-goodness physical withdrawal, and that included shivering. And occasional vomiting, if you really wanted to know.

"That's quite intriguing," Doctor Ingram had said. That's about the point that Calley had found his fist connecting with the man's jawbone, and the Mondragon Labs guards had dragged him away with his hands behind his back. It was just too bad he'd barely felt the hit. The noise had seemed pretty satisfying, from what he'd heard.

He shivered like a junkie in need of a serious fix. Which... he was. It just wasn't the kind of fix an eighteen year old Italian boy could buy. Then, he started up the driveway. He reached the back door. Locked, of course. He stared at the window for a moment. Then, with all the subtly he could muster, he picked up a rock from the weedy garden and hurled it through the glass pane.

Meh. So he didn't have much subtly in him right now. So what? His basic shifts worked just fine. If someone called the cops, he could quite literally fly out of here. He didn't care that much. All he was doing was stealing a dog. All the dog had done was teach him to splinter in the first place. Meh, and meh again. Calley reached inside the broken glass, and undid the lock with a sweater-covered hand. Not that he was trying to avoid fingerprints: that required caring. This sweater was just really big.

He stepped inside, not bothering to close the door behind him. "Here, doggie doggie." He called out unenthusiastically. "You're coming with me. ...And maybe some silverware, too." Just on principle. He might not care about anything much right now, but Calley still had his principles. He moved further into the house, pocketing stray items of value while he searched for a very sick dog.

Wraith's patrol normally kept him in the city but at least once or twice a week he tried to move out through the neighborhoods. While out of costume there was no way that Luke could ever drive a vehicle with his blindness but in costume Wraith often used a motorcycle to help his patrols move more easily once he was away from the city. Anyone checking Luke's owernship records would fail to find the motorcycle since he had it owned by a parent company he had set up... just a front for purchasing his Wraith equipment but it worked.

The weather was beautiful with the touch of autumn in the air and the feeling that winter would soon be arriving. So far the night had been quiet and while Wraith enjoyed his confrontations with the enemy he also enjoy a quiet night just out and about the beautiful city. With the cool breeze blowing against his costume and against the bare skin of his cheek where the visor didn't cover he could admit that it was just good to be alive. He had passed several vehicles over the course of the evening but most people seemed happy to just stay at home tonight.

*CRASH*

Wraith slowed his motorcycle swiftly expanding his awareness as he tried to find what had just caused that sound... breaking glass if he wasn't mistaken. Just in time his sonar extended to catch someone slipping inside of a house about half a block away. He couldn't be sure from this distance but it sure looked as though the pane glass window in the door had been broken.

"Time to go to work." Wraith murmured coldly as he pulled his motorcycle into the shadows and then killed the engine. Shadows and darkness were his friend and he embraced them much like a lover. Sliding through the darkness with little to no sound he soon arrived at the house he had spotted and his first guess had been right... the window had been broken allowing someone to slip inside. As Wraith stepped in the still open door he crouched and then concentrated, reaching out with his sonar, trying to find where the intruder had dissapeared to in the house.

Hooded vigilantes that would have felt right at home in the Marvel universe were the farthest thing from Calley's mind. Calley's mind was on, currently, a clock.

It was a very old clock.

It was a very stately clock.

It was a very dignified and no doubt antique clock, of the grandfather variety. He craned his head upwards. It was also a very tall clock. Its pendulum swung back and forth with a the tired squeak... squeak... squeak... of a priceless piece of craftsmanship about a year away from stopping forever. Like everything else about this house, the grandfather clock had been left to care for itself. It wasn't something that grandfather clocks did best.

"Sucks to be you, huh." Calley said, staring at its hands. It was still set for last year's daylight savings time: an hour behind, but diligently keeping the time it thought was correct. Looking at the dust that had built up within the pendulum case itself, Calley had to respect the thing for working at all. With a shake of his head and another shiver that left his teeth clenched and his hands buffing his arms as if it he just needed to get warm, the scrawny teenager turned away from the grandfather clock. He hadn't turned on any lights in the house--the moon was only a few days until full, the sky was cloudless, and it didn't even occur to him that lights might make the room brighter. And where would that leave him if he turned on the lights, and things still looked this dim? No, he left the light switches to take a little nap.

Now that watch sitting on the table... That, he let take a little nap in the pocket of his pants. This particular pair was the kind he'd gotten used to wearing over the last Winter, holed up in Mondragon Labs with the Resistance: a over-large pair of nondescript guard's pants. It took a belt to keep them around his hips. Plenty of pockets, though. There was a heartwarming family picture in a silver picture frame on that table, its glass streaked with finger print grease that broke the dust into abstract streaks. With a squint, he realized it might be real silver. It joined the watch. And a jangling collection of loose change from a table by the back door, spoons, and a tea cup. There had been a set of four matching tea cups. Now there was an odd set of three tea cups. Spite had a new face, and it was three tea cups.

His thieving was haphazard, at best. Entirely unpremeditated. It was the work of a mind that wasn't at its finest. He shivered again, pausing to lean against a hallway wall. "Mom always said drugs were trouble," he grumbled. His mom hadn't counted on his own powers being additive. Since his Mom hadn't known he was a mutant when she died--neither had he, actually--it wasn't entirely fair to grumble. But his motto for the night was 'meh', and he was sticking to it. "Meh," he diligently repeated aloud, pushing off of the wall. He stopped at the linen closet to mess with the guy's towels. They were old and threadbare. And now they were on the floor. Whoops. He jumped on them a little, just because he could. Then he stood there for a moment, feet still on the crumpled mound of towels, feeling stupid.

Riiiiight. Moving on. He kept up his haphazard search of the house, moving at a leisurely pace, swiping small things and messing up trivial things in his wake. He was like the Little Train That Hated the World.

Wraith could 'see' his target in what was probably the living room... slowly moving through the shadows towards him, Wraith reached back and grabbed his baton, holding it firmly in his left hand. This was not your typical thief. There was no methodical movements or searching just... randomness. Then Wraith heard the person speak... a young man from the sound of the voice.

"Mom always said drugs were trouble. Meh."
The man murmured to himself. Without Wraith's enhanced hearing there was no way he could have heard the words but it just so happened that he had been blessed just for this kind of situation.

"Drugs... just great... that could mean increased strenth, speed, and stamina because he's out to get a fix." The shadowed man thought to himself as he prepared to move, "Less coordination though. No warning this time... strike hard, strike fast and bring him down."

Remaining in a crouched position Wraith continued to move closer, closing on his target. He could already feel his adrenaline beginning to pump and he knew that the 'wraiths and ghosts' of his namesake would more than likely begin appearing in the young man's vision. Without a sound Wraith suddenly stood and charged, leaping towards the young man with all the strenth he could muster. The impact was going to hurt but he knew how to fall and should be able to roll with it in order to make sure that only the criminal got hurt and not the hero.

There was a word for this.

Calley had stopped in the hall, because there was a word for this. Two words, actually: "delirium tremens". The visual hallucinations experienced by people going through some serious withdrawal. Calley had read up on withdrawal symptoms after the guards had shoved him into the library to have a cool-down time. He was currently seeing vague images; ghostly people, waltzing throughout the house. The grandfather clock ticked behind him like a little chuckle: tick, squeak, tick, squeak. It was kind of an asthmatic chuckle, actually. He shook his head. Delirium tremens. Grea--

IMPACTED.

He didn't even have a chance of hearing the man. On a typical day, maybe. Tonight? Not even a million dollar jackpot in a rigged casino of a chance. Even if some part of him had heard the man's approach, he'd have only registered it as another white noise in his mind of static. And to be honest, the delirium tremens ghosties were way more interesting than white noise. He was just about to name the wraithlike figures when he was, to repeat (because it sort of deserves repetition:)

IMPACTED.

That's right, folks. In the back. It hurt. Which, in his present state, was saying a lot. Calley hit the ground, and was displeased to find that the ground hit back. Wuff. There went the breath in his lungs. And then whoever had hit him was rolling with the impact, and he was skittering away with a distinct lack of dignity and gasping back in air and wondering which of the figures he could currently see was the one who'd actually just attacked him. Probably... that one. Calley kicked out a vindictive leg, and felt his shin bone connect solidly with a coffee table.

He bit back a few very uncreative curses. Note to self: hang out with sailors. He was still stuck on middle school swears, and that just wasn't cool.

"What the hell was that, you, you... person, you!" He finally spat out, quite indignantly, and with a slight wheeze. "This is my house to rob. Go find your own." He blinked between a few of the of the specters in the hallway. "Shoo," he added lamely, for good measure. "Or I'll... growl at you, or something." He probably should have shut up at 'shoo'. "And that's your final warning!" He added, trying to shove the statement full of volume and confidence. It wasn't helped by the sudden shiver that went through his whole frame.

That had gone even better than Wraith could have hoped... the impact had been hard but his landing and roll had absorbed most of the damage. True his shoulder would be aching for a little while but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

As he came back into a crouched position and focused his attention on the figure he had attacked he had to hold in a laugh... the guy was kicking a coffee table! Wraith was pretty sure that his ghostly images were out in full force thus making the guy want to kick at something but that didn't really matter. What did matter was stopping this guy from burglarizing someone house. That had to be one of the most helpless feeling in the world... to come home and find your houe broken into and your things taken. You would feel violated and unsafe in your own house from that day on.

"What the hell was that, you, you... person, you! This is my house to rob. Go find your own. Shoo, or I'll... growl at you, or something. And that's your final warning!" The boy said rather shakily before a literal shiver suddenly ran over his form.

"Is this what the drugs have done for you?" Wraith's voice rasped out from where he remained crouched in the hall. He couldn't help but pity the boy but there was still no way he could let this burglary suceed. "Why don't you just leave the stuff you were going to take and get out... get yourself cleaned up. There's nothing here worth ruining your life for and the drugs aren't worth it either."

The shadowy form maintain his grip on the baton in his left hand, ready to respond defensively if his opponent rallied and attacked but for a moment there was a respite. His blow had obviously taken a lot of starch out of the youngster so hopefully he would be smart and stay down.

"And what would your mom think if she could see you now? Just looking for your next fix and willing to do anything for it... do you think she'd be proud?" He wasn't out to be cruel but he had to get through to him. Drugs would ruin your life as fast if not faster than anything else out there. If the kid would leave Wraith's alter ego would do his best to help the young man but that was in the future. Right now he was standing at a cross roads... it was up to him to choose his path.

>> "Is this what the drugs have done for you?"

What.

>> "Why don't you just leave the stuff you were going to take and get out... get yourself cleaned up. There's nothing here worth ruining your life for and the drugs aren't worth it either."

The.

>> "And what would your mom think if she could see you now? Just looking for your next fix and willing to do anything for it... do you think she'd be proud?"

Hell.

Did he just get... lectured? Was that what a lecture sounded like? He'd spent his last few years at home tuning his father's out, or sharing stupid hand signals and faces with his older sister across the table as they both got yelled at. 'Did you put that cat in your mother's bed?' The guy liked to accuse them of. 'Nope,' they could answer quite honestly. They'd put it in their step-mother's bed, not their mother's. They'd sit solemnly across the table from each other, as the rant went on: 'You know how allergic she is!' Yes they did. The best part was, they'd had to borrow the cats. All their friends were in on it. And some of the neighbors.

But that, just then, had sounded like an honest-to-goodness lecture. And that was just too good to pass up. Calley...

...Hung his head in the deepest lull of shame. "I... I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered. "It's like I can't think straight. I'm... I'm seeing things, even." How sappy could he make this? He'd start with drama-show sappy, and work his way up to soap opera. From there, he'd have to go to Japanese-drama. Could he still do fake tears? Oh, he totally could!

The teenager's eyes started to get a little wet at the corners. He averted his gaze in a manly manner. "I... are you going to call the police? I can't go back there again! I can't!" Another shiver went through his body. Oooo, good timing, that time.

At some point he had to get this guy out of here, because he still had a dog to find and rescue. But he wasn't really thinking in the long-term, just now. Just now... he'd just been lectured.

Was the boy crying? Was he actually crying? Wraith didn't think he had come across that strong but maybe his comment about the young guys mother had struck harder than her immagined it would. "His mothers probably dead and so just hearing about her makes him break down." He thought to himself, coming to the only conclusion he could possibly come to.

"I... I don't know what I'm doing. It's like I can't think straight. I'm... I'm seeing things, even. I... are you going to call the police? I can't go back there again! I can't!" The boy said, tearing up part way and almost calling out in anguish at the end.

"As long as you leave without taking anything I won't call the police." The shadow spoke, a touch of compassion edging his rough voice, "I'm out to protect the innocent... sometimes punishing the guilty goes along with that and sometimes it doesn't... you've got a chance kid. Take it."

He had met kids like this while over in Europe... heck, he had met kids like this while he was in the states. He'd be willing to be abuse was part of the family life along with alcohol. More than likely the family was pour and the kids had never been told they'd have a chance out in the world. There was no telling what the kid could accomplish if there were just someone out there to encourage him. Shaking his head ever so slightly Wraith shook it, bringing his focus back on the situation at hand. The kid still hadn't chosen to leave and until he did that there was no helpilng him... he had to want the help.

"I doubt we have all night until the owner comes home." Wraith spoke again as he continued to watch the young man, although his grip on the baton had lessened slightly, "What are you going to do?"

With the combat finished things were pretty quiet in the house... there was that squeeking from the clock, creaking from the house as a light breeze blew against it, and the sound of some animals somewhere near the garrage it sounded like. Sleeping or moving just a little but not aggressive. "People really need better guard dogs."

>> "As long as you leave without taking anything I won't call the police. I'm out to protect the innocent... sometimes punishing the guilty goes along with that and sometimes it doesn't... you've got a chance kid. Take it."

This guy was for real. Because the odds of both of them faking it right now were only slightly better than the odds of an airplane crushing them both in five, four, three, two... Yeah, he was pretty sure that the odds of both of them faking this were pretty slim. So. That meant, indeed, that this guy was for real. Really. He was so... cute. Calley almost wanted to adopt him. Had he ever sounded like that? Well, definitely not exactly like that, but... he did seem to remember being slightly naive, once. That was... what? Over a year ago? A lifetime. This guy just didn't get it. And good for him, really. Calley wasn't going to be the one to blatantly and intentionally burst his shiny pink soap bubble of hope. Even if it was tempting. Even if it would be really easy. There were at least three ways to do it right this second that came to mind. The easiest would be to dissolve into the uncontrollable laughter that was lurking at the corners of his sniffing, near-teary breath.

>> "What are you going to do?"

Moment of truth. Calley did the noble thing: he nodded. Let the guy believe sincerely in his heart of hearts that he'd converted a hopeless druggie burglar. He stiffly wobbled to his feet, whipping at the corner of an eye with a drooping sweater sleeve. "I... I'll go. You never saw me, right? No cops?" He gave the guy--or at least, the only figure that wasn't dancing around his vision like crazy--another hopeful, piercing look. "I... thanks. Thank you." He said. And then he humbly shuffled back the way he'd come. Out the door with the newly shatter-decorated window pane, down the driveway...

...Where he ducked behind the decorative bushes in serious need of a pruning, lightly padded across the front of the house and down the other side, and peered up at the house again. There was an old-style wrap around porch. As quietly as he could--which was pretty darn quietly, as long as he wasn't dealing with one of those annoying super-senses people--he scaled up to its top. It wasn't hard: a foot up on the porch railing, a grab for the roof, a pull up, a roll, and a wheeze-on-his-back-shaking. Woo... okay, he wasn't going to go back down that way. He made a mental note not to ever try real drugs. And to never, never, never, never leave himself so drained that he couldn't splinter. He wasn't addicted to it. He'd only been doing it for two weeks: you can't get addicted to a thing in two weeks. He just needed to have a few splinters out at all times, that was all. Then he'd never feel like this again. Were the stars always that dim?

With a last little puff, he lightly rolled to his feet and surveyed his new situation. He was even with the second story now. And... and that was an open window. Oh, bless the heart of an owner who abuses everything to the point of death, including his air conditioner. For lo, open windows are the solution to all your central cooling problems. With a little grin, Calley jiggled off the screen and slipped inside. He found himself in a bedroom. His first stop: the sock drawer. Because everyone knows that's the last place a burglar looks for your stash of--

Woah. That actually was a pretty decent wad of cash. Pocketed!

Bring bring bring! That was the bell. Figuratively speaking, of course. Round two, begin.

As the kid turned to walk out Wraith breathed a sigh of relief. His adrenaline was already dropping back to normal levels and for a brief second the hero allowed himself to relax. He had done it... perhapse the most important think he had hever done. He had helped save the kid from himself. "Gotta follow him and make sure to get his name... I can help out of costume even more than I can in costume."

Expanding his sonar sense even more Wraith idly watched the young man walk outside... the kid was really leaving. He had known there was hope in this messed up world and this kid had proven it. If you gave people a chance. more often and not they were willing to...

Alarm bells suddenly went off in his head as the boy suddenly ducked behind the bushes and began to move back towards the house. "Oh no... is he..." Wraith murmured, his brow knitting slightly in concentration as he focused on what was happening. As the boy whom he now once again classified as 'target' climbed up onto the roof via the porch railing Wraith could feel his blood beginning to boil.

"I've been played... let's see how he likes my games." Wraith murmured humorlessly. Moving towards the stairs he began to make his way upwards, following the target's process with his sonar. The kid thought he was just facing some vigilante in a halloween costume... he was about to find out that there was much more to Wraith than that. As he took the steps cautiously, one movement at a time he could feel his adrenaline surging again, even more powerfully than it had before. Anger just had a way of doing that.

"I can't believe I let myself get sucked into that." Wraith thought to himself as he allowed his anger to slowly boil up stronger and stronger, "If I could hit him with a sonic blast I would but maybe a few extra wraiths will help."

Pausing outside the door to the bedroom he allowed his concentration to fall completely on his sensory perception... the key was to bring the distance in to only about twenty feet but to put as much power out as he could. If he could make the boy see enough ghosts it would free him to get in his blow. Finally when the moment came he pushed in the door and charged in, ready to strike the target right across the head with his baton. It wasn't a fancy blow but it would work. After all there was no way that some drugged up kid could dodge a strike from him... was there?

In all seriousness, he really should find that dog now. My that was a nice lamp. Where was he going to put a lamp? His back pocket? He unplugged it from the wall, instead. And unscrewed its light bulb just the smallest bit, for good measure. So. That dog. Woah, this guy owned a suit? It didn't fit with the rest of the house. In the moonlight room of monochrome tones, he couldn't make out the negligent coffee stains or fraying of the collar. Those would have made him think the suit was right at home. In any case, he found a shoe box at the top of the closet, and shoved it inside. Take that, suit. So. Dog. Right. Helllllo, master bathroom. He uncapped all the shampoo, conditioner, aftershave, and mouthwash bottles he could find, and set then up-ended in the bathtub. Ha! That would take about fifteen dollars to replace. Yeah, punk. What now. What. Now.

Really, though, he'd come here to get that dog out. This was a bad place, and if the thing hadn't died from the heartworm infestation in its chest yet, it would soon. Calley didn't know what DocProf could do for animals, but he'd promised himself he'd at least see, if he survived his fight with Hunter Antonescu. And here he was, alive. So here he should be, doing that. He reluctantly set the bathmat down in the toilet bowl, and trudged dutifully back into the bedroom proper.

That's about when his vision started doing double takes. All on its own. Those lovely hallucinations of his, without any sort of trigger, suddenly doubled. Tripled. The room was swarming with them, and with odder things yet--squares, blobs, all sorts of random ghosts on his vision. Calley came to a full stop, his back to the door, his mouth slightly ajar. They were everywhere. He let his neck crane slowly backwards. The ceiling, too. And under it all, a sense of jittery unease. He didn't feel any worse than he had a few minutes ago. So why the vision-clutter? He could barely see the unmade bed and the worn-down carpet. He definitely didn't feel as bad as he'd felt when he tried to keep lunch down, for the second time.

For the first time, it occurred to Calley that this might not be the infamous delirium tremens of which he'd so painstakingly and self-fulfilling-prophecy read. It occurred to him that the guy downstairs had arrived on the scene just about when they did. And it occurred to him that his back was to the door. He whipped around, nearly falling over in sudden disorientation as the wraiths whipped with him. Oh wow. Merry go round gone horribly, horribly wrong.

It was that loss of balance that saved his skull. Calley felt something very hard and not very naive anymore swish past his ear. He knew on a base level what was coming next, and tensed. It's never a good idea to tense when you're about to take an unfriendly hit.

THAWCK-creeeak! Was not a sound he'd ever wanted to associate with his collarbone. He couldn't really see, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that Citizen SamariGoodie had caught wind of his unsubtle back-stabbing. And this time, the guy probably wasn't going to let him just walk--

Okay, screw the overanalyzing. That had hurt. And to be honest, he didn't like this sweater, anyway.

Said sweater exploded into little carnival ribbons. The scrawny Italian boy disappeared. In his place stood a Bengal tiger on the larger end of its species average. Its blue eyes glittered coldly in the dark room. It wasn't relying on them, though: it didn't even stop to check if the visual wraiths had followed it between forms. It switched to relying on its nose. And even with the static in its mind, a human male in an enclosed space has a fairly strong scent. The tiger aimed a heavy paw at the man. Claws sheathed. This time. A low growl was kindling in its chest.

To be fair, he had warned the guy. 'Shoo,' he'd said. 'Or I'll growl at you, or something', he'd said. 'This is your final warning,' he'd said. Clearly, he'd been overgenerous with the man already.

THAWCK-creeeak!

Even within his hood Wraith had to wince a little... he was ticked at the kid sure but he didn't particularly want to do serious damage... at least there had been no crunching of broken bones so it was all good. As he prepared to strike again the boy suddenly dissapeared... no changed. He swelled tremendously leaving a huge cat in his place. Wraith couldn't be sure whether it was a tiger, panther, leopard, or what but he knew that it was REALLY big.

Leaping away with self-preservation suddenly on the forefront of his mind he felt a paw slam into the heels of his feet as he went across the bed and then rolled to a rather ungraceful stop against the far wall. His landing would have been a normal shoulder roll except for that swat from the animal. "Cat... cat... oh man... I don't think the frequency is right... I think he can see." Wraith though to himself as he desperately tried to figure out how to fight... whether he should run... and what kind of cat that was.

"At least I know it's not a lion... no mane... unless of course he changes sex when he changes shape? Gross.." Quickly moving back up to his feet Wraith remained in a crouched position as his mind argued how to handle the situation. He didn't have super strenth... super speed... super healing... what did he have? Some stupid sonar device. How in the world was he supposed to stop somebody that could change into a gigantic cat?

Opening his mouth to begin to speak Wraith thought better of it. He had hurt the guy. Why in the world would he listen to him now? "Ok... big cat... he's faster, stronger, and has better senses than me. Smarter? That's still up in the air." He thought as his left hand replaced the baton on his back and grabbed his staff, extending it with a quick motion of his hand. Bracing himself with the weapon gripped in both hands Wraith prepared himself. "I've gone crazy... certifiable... I'm facing a tiger or something... boy did I get the short end of the mutation straw!"

The man had quite neatly dodged his first swipe. Quick little masked mouse. Moved well, with the right incentive. As the tiger watched the man roll across the bed and come to a stop against the wall--a rather satisfying kind of stop, from where the tiger stood--Calley realized something: he could see. No ghosties. No squares. No blobs. No delirium tremens, apparently. His ears flicked. Now. Was that a permanent fix, or was it just until the man worked his mutational magic against this particular form? It would be best to just leap across that bed while he could still see, and--

--And what? The tiger kneaded the ground uncertainly with one paw. This wasn't Hunter. Granted, the guy had apparently been trying to half-way brain him. And Calley's dodge had been a fluke. And his shoulder was going to have the most fantastically brag-worthy bruise ever; or it would, until Slate healed it. Really, no harm, no foul. He wasn't about to accept an invitation to the man's birthday party, but he didn't really want to lick the man's blood off of his whiskers, either.

The Hooded Vigilante was moving. That nasty little baton of his... was going away. The tiger's head raised, its ears swishing forwards. Really? He was putting it away? 'Cause that would be gre--

Right. Right, of course. He was putting it away so he could take out his big honkin' extendo-staff. Of course. Why else would a person put down one weapon, if it wasn't to take out an even bigger one? The man braced himself, like he was expecting... well, probably like he was expecting a very large tiger to lunge at him.

The tiger's head lowered again, parallel with the ground. Its tail curved down towards the floor, then flipped back up; a tip-twitch. One rear leg moved a nearly silent step back, and settled. The other three followed in proper order. His tail darted through the air--hit nothing. Another light series of steps back. Another tail lash. He hit wall, empty space, wall. The tiger's rear advanced quietly out the doorway with its flicking tail as a guide. Its eyes, ears, whiskers, and nose never left the man, not even as it grabbed the doorknob delicately between two rows of long white teeth and pulled the door shut behind it. Click. In the hallway, it moved with a sudden speed to nuzzle, head-butt, paw swipe, and generally abuse a convenient chair into a position propped under the doorknob. It sat down in front of the door with supreme satisfaction, whiskers held smugly parallel to his cheeks. There: an easy solution for all your superhero problems.

...An easy solution that would be so much more effective if that door opened outwards, instead of inwards. Well, crap. He had mentioned that his head felt stuffed with black cotton balls, right? And he wasn't all that bright to begin with.

It was a staring contest or... it would have been if Wraith had anything to stare with. He could look menacing but there was no way to truly stare someone down but at least he could make them think he was in on the contest. Several moments passed with neither of them moving to attack and then he noticed one of the cat's legs move.

"Here it comes." Wraith thought his muscles tensing as he tried to come up with some idea of how he would defend himself... just the weight of the cat would crush him to the ground so what did he actually think he could do with this staff?

Another leg moved and then a third and forth. Slowly, but with deliberation, the cat was moving back towards the door. He wasn't attacking? Maybe the kid wasn't as bad as Wraith had been beginning to think. Moments later the door closer and he could hear/see the tiger wedging a chair up against the door.

At least his clothes had been shredded and left behind so... that meant his loot was being left behind too right? Moving closer to inspect the small pilot the shadowy figure crouched to inspect what had been taken. Money, a now broken china cup, silverware, a picture frame... all of it was worth something but none of it was the kind of thing your typical thief would take.

"And why did he leave it behind? He silently wondered to himself as he once again focused on the opposite side of the doorway where the cat simply sat looking at the door, "What is he really after if he's willing to give up these things without a fight?"

Deciding that was a question not really worth worrying about Wraith turned towards his next dilema... leaving. With the cat sitting outside there was no way he was going to try and go out that way but just leaving the cat inside to loot whatever he wanted just wasn't an option.

"I can still get out through the window... the same way he came in. But there's still the question of what does he really want? I better just watch for now." Wraith finally decided. Moving slowly over to the window he slipped outside, doing his best to maintain silence as he moved along the roof to crouch over the doorway they had both originally entered through. Concentrating Wraith reached out with his sonar, focusing on the cat to monitor exactly what he was up to.

The tiger's ears flicked haphazardly. Its tail swept the floor. Which was usually a figure of speech. In this house... he tried not to think about what that sliding gritting mildly sticky floor texture was really all about. Sometimes feeling very dimmed sensations was a very, very good thing. In fact, he could probably just pretend that he felt nothing at all. ...Was that gum? His fur rippled down his body in a shuddering line. There would be much grooming after this. Much.

Ears at attention. There was movement from behind the door. At least, he thought so. There was, wasn't there? It felt a little like he was hearing through pea soup. Hard to focus through the white and black scurry of TV ants over his mind. He was pretty sure the sound was coming closer. Maybe. The tiger hurriedly wobbled back to its feet, legs braced. For what? For getting bopped on the head with an Extendo-Staff Brand Baton-Upgrade? This was stupid. He should get away from the door, not--

--The sounds had stopped. Flick, flick, swivel. He was pretty sure that wasn't just his ears being stupid. There was only two of them, but it wasn't like this was his first time test-driving them. Aside from a certain white housecat with black spots here and there, this was the form he'd used the most in his life. It had been his cover mutation ever since he'd accidentally-kinda gotten drunk that one time and shifted to it in public in front of both Sanctuary and Mansion residents: tiger shifting. He was just a humble tiger shifter. And this humble tiger shifter's ears had been perfectly acute two weeks ago. So what if they were only one measly pair of ears? Most of the splinters he'd been using hadn't even had ears. He was more used to skimping on auditory input than touch. And even if he was hearing through figurative pillows and a literal door, he could still hear. And those noises had definitely stopped. After going to the... window? The roof? Had the guy seriously just stolen his route? He felt a little violated, somehow. ...And suddenly paranoid that the guy was going to copy the rest of his route, and pop back in through the downstairs door. Or another window. Or the ceiling. What? The man was obviously a mutant, with those shadow... people... thingies. Calley was allowed to be paranoid. For all he knew, the man was a housemancer. Yes, a housemancer, and he'd retreated outside so that he could make the hallway walls collapse in all around the tiger, suffocating, from every side--

The fur on his tail was fully foofed, except for one spot near the tip that might or might not be covered in the strings of recently spit gum. The tiger found that he was crouching low to the floor with eyes like lamplights and whiskers held at a mortified slant. Annnnnd that was enough imagination for him. Damn you, Mister Rogers and Big Bird and Barney. Clearly, preemptive co-conspirators with this guy. With all the dignity he could muster, the tiger pushed itself back into a fully upright position and turned away from the door--glanced back sharply--and moved with the utmost of regal pose down the--was that door still closed?--hallway. He still had a--what about the stairs? anyone coming up the stairs?--mission to accomplish. Very important, that mission. Very. Just as soon as he remembered what it was, he'd remember how very very important it--CEILING CHECK! ...Clear.

The distinct smell of a large dog caught the much larger cat's attention. His tail gave a dismissive flick of distain before he remembered: riiiight. The smell was coming from further down the hall; from behind a closed door. He stalked that way, shaking out a back leg slightly as something he-didn't-want-to-know-what got lodged between the pads.

The door was unlocked. The knob turned readily enough when he clamped his teeth around it. But lo, did he hate round doorknobs: his sharp teeth slipped and clittered, gaining no real purchase to complete the turn. Pulling doors shut: easy. Opening them: not a tigger-friendly activity. With a glare, he shifted back to human. "Stupid door," he muttered, pulling it open. "That'll show yo--"

Grrrrrrr.

"Oh you have got to be--"

rrrrrowwwwwl!

He'd found the dog. It was on the other side of the door, apparently. Where it was standing on plank-stiff legs, the hair along its spine raised in a quivering mohawk. It lunged forward with a wet wuff. Calley skittered back, bare arms pushing the air around in generally useless 'nice doggie' waves. He'd have potentially been in trouble if the dog hadn't suddenly sat down in mid-pursuit and started coughing. Violently. Small wet spots splattered the floor between its legs, shimmering like silver drops in the light. Calley gave a sympathetic wince. "Yeah... I know how that goes." He muttered soothingly. He'd done a bit of that whole 'coughing blood' thing when he'd been the dog, too. Err... shifted to the dog. It was actually a little strange, staring at the canine: he wasn't in the habit of ever meeting his forms again. There was something oddly resonant about looking at the dog, and knowing exactly what it felt. How its every muscle moved under its skin. How its chest was tight with the movements of invaders who were slowly, slowly killing it with their own deaths--it wasn't living heartworms that were typically a problem. It was the dead ones that caused the heart to inflame. The dog warily stared down the corridor at him, too tired to bother keeping up the chase.

"Hey," Calley tried lowly, edging a hopefully non-skittery footstep forwards. Onto the floor. That his tail had been sweeping. Oooooh that was definitely gum. Don't think about it. "...So, you probably don't remember me," he said, discretely rubbing his foot off on a cleanish patch of floor, "but you kind of did me a favor. A pretty big one. So... I'm kind of here to rescue you. If you want rescuing. And if you'd be so kind as to not rip off my hand." Said hand was being held out, with unwise determination, towards the dog's nose. The sickly Rottweiler gave it a half-interested snuff, its large brown eyes despondently categorizing him. Friend or foe? Low fat, or bad for its already weak heart? Apparently Calley feel soundly into the first category of the first and the second of the second, because the dog's hackles smoothed back down.

"All right, then." The currently unclothed teenager said slowly. "So... umm. Right. I'll be back." A very stupid, simple plan was forming in his head. It involved luring the dog down the stairs somehow, convincing it to come down the street by some miracle, and getting it to levitate into the back set of his car. Because Calley knew that form, and he knew that dog wasn't jumping. He could work out the finer details of that in just a second. Right now...

Calley turned on one heel (took a paranoid glance at all four walls and the ceiling), and went back into the bedroom. Clothes. A teenager with a dog in the middle of the night wasn't all that suspicious. A naked teenager with a dog in the middle of the night was slightly more police-call-worthy. He ruffled through the man's wardrobe, trying to find the cleanest things he could in the dark. And trying not to think too hard as he slid them on. He couldn't decide which was worse: wearing the man's boxers, or wearing the man's pants without the man's boxers. It was only until he got back to the Mansion. It was only until he got back to the Mansion--

He spotted something glittering a sad bone white on the floor. "Alas, poor pilfered tea cup," he mourned quietly, with a shake of his head. "I hardly knew ye." He left the pile of junk on the floor; even the wad of cash. It had only been impulse-grabs. He rarely made the same impulse-grabs twice. His head rose up again. So... now he got to deal with moving a dog that might not be able to move itself. At least the large thing had been loosing weight... Yeeeeah...

He didn't even want to know what his personal Masked Face of Justice was up to right--CEILING CHECK! ...Clear.