blood beans

Avondale 
#1


Naturally, black footed cats were not build for cold weather. However, the natural physiology of a Were creature adapted to fit whatever climate it found itself in. The heightened body heat helped in tandem with a thick coat of fur to keep Parker warm. She had shifted with intentions of exploring the wilderness of the city that had potential to be the home of the group, if it ever did come to fruition. She also enjoyed a shift like this, from time to time, to keep her mind off of the day-to-day anxieties of work. She had been given the position of head Mortician, and moved to another funeral home. Admittedly, she did prefer it over avoiding the topic of the zombie corpse with Shelly.

None of those things were on Parker's mind now. What was on her mind, was the chaos of the situation she was creating. Parker had found that while she was helped by her body to keep warm, a sudden blanketing of snow was enough to drive her into seeking shelter. She had found a farm, on which she had discovered a chicken coop. Initially, she had only sought to warm herself inside. But, well, there was little she could sometimes do to help the whims of a wild cat. And, so, upon entering the coop, she had been driven to do as cats do; hunt. Upon striking the first hen, the rest had panicked, and now she was among a flurry of loud clucking and cawing as she scrambled with the chicken at the center of the coop.


@Shane

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#2
outfit, more or less

Fuck's sake. It was inevitable, and little of Shane's grump made its presence known externally. But damnation, this was not what he wanted to be doing right then. A light sleeper by necessity, the chicken coop was right below his window by design. And boy were those chickens unhappy. As was Shane.

Throwing off the covers, he didn't bother finding pants. Or a shirt. Didn't expect to be out long, probably just another coyote to run off. For all his heavy, uncertain thoughts, it'd still only ever been mundane local pests harassing his hens. Far as he could tell, anyway. Shrugging into an old robe, tying it loosely, and throwing a heavy jacket on over it, he headed downstairs, grabbed the shotgun near the side door, and dug a box of shells out of a high cabinet. Loading two, he shoved two more in a jacket pocket, tucked one between his teeth, stepped into his boots, and headed out into the cold.

Double-barrel aimed at the ground a short distance away, he braced and let one shot ring out. Often that was enough, but to be safe he loaded the bitten shell in its place and moved closer to the coop.
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#3
The chicken screeched and struggled, but it was ultimately not a match for a powerful little creature like herself. Only six pounds, only a foot tall, but packed with a power that was unnatural to even her wild counterpart. The chicken was dead within moments, and the small feline would relish in her prize for the brief moments she was allowed it.

Then, of course, there was immediate punishment. It came in the form of a violently loud noise. The crack of a gun, the noise intensified by her sensitive hearing. With a started yowl, she would drop her kill, and in a flurry, would scramble to dive beneath the nesting boxes. It was a tight fit, but she crouched low, her heart hammering in her chest, in her lungs, in her brain. Pupils blown to take up nearly the entirety of her iris, nostrils flaring to take in the smell of gunpowder, she peered frantically toward the door that she'd managed to work herself through to begin with. Something was out there, something with a gun, and while she was fast... she had little time to decide if she was quick enough to escape.
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#4
Well, nothing came scrambling out, though of course the chickens continued to make clucky, scrabbly sounds of alarm. Crooking the gun in his elbow so he could rub at bleary eyes, Shane let out his first vocal sign of displeasure. "Mmmm-m-mm." Low, groggy, the humming groan prolonged a little more than usual and ended with a shiver. Fuck, it was cold. Should've grabbed those pants. Gave him some sort of focus, at least. Alright then, time to crack this thing open, see what he was dealing with. Both barrels loaded, he tromped over the the short side of the slanted coop roof. The entire thing was on a hinge, allowing easy access to get in and get any eggs each morning after the hens were up and roaming. Opening it at night, well, that was a little more exciting. He wasn't an overwhelming fan of exciting.

Keeping the firearm low, not really at the ready, he lay one hand on the roof. Just some opportunistic critter, likely terrified now, ready to bolt. Good enough, that was his only real goal. Cracking it open, he made some effort to peer within but of course could see virtually nothing. Standing to the side in an effort to not block the path of anything what tried to flee, he grumbled into the coop, "Fuckin' up, bud. C'mon, 'way y'go."
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#5
She was going to make a run for it. Her body tensed, and she prepared to burst toward the small door. Just then, though, the roof above her was lifting. In her panic, Parker could do nothing but freeze in fear, peering up as the cold night sky opened up over her. She could see the man as he barked words that she couldn't quite make sense of to her. The fearful feline was, for the moment, paralyzed in terror where she was. The chickens, however, wasted no time in bursting up and out of the coop, freed from the small space she'd brought chaos too.
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#6
Aaand yep. There they went. Fuck, he was too tired to do this proper. Should've kept the lid lower, rattled it a little, see if he could get the whatever to flee out the small door. Now end of the adventure meant, best case, he'd be wrangling panicked chickens through the dark. Outstanding. Suddenly dropping the door down was no great option, as he'd likely kill a hen or three, catch their flimsy little necks. Nothing for it, then.

Shuffling along the side of the coop and pushing the lid up fully with one arm as the last of his animals piled out, he again crooked the shotgun over his elbow so his other hand could raise the swinging wooden arm that'd hold the roof open. Back porch light provided enough illumination to show the bloody bird corpse flopped on the floor in the glorified box's center. "Unfortunate," he mumbled dully, eyes drawn to the loss before movement pulled them elsewhere.
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#7
The movement was Parker as she slunk along the length of the underside of the nesting boxes, her belly dragging against straw and chicken scat. The top was fully open, and the man was looming, speaking again, holding a gun that she could only catch glimpses of. If she ran, would he shoot her? She had killed, she had destroyed, she had angered him. And she looked like nothing more than a troublesome house cat. Her heart hammered as she forced herself to make her decision. If she could scare him back, she could slink through the smaller door and sneak away.

So she would peek her head out from beneath the chicken boxes just enough to tilt her face up at him. Eyes wide, she would open her mouth, lips peeled, and hiss viciously up at the man. A paw swiped the air, and she spat, and yowled, and hoped he would back away from the coop for fear that she would jump at him.
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#8
Some movement came from the arm across which the gun lay, but not much. Deep blue eyes narrowed suspiciously at the speckled fur and glinting eyes, then relaxed into... Well, still a tired squint. But less of one. This was not at all what he'd expected. Strays weren't uncommon, but he'd not had a lot of problems with them going after his chickens. Honestly, Shane didn't know much about cats. Didn't hate them, good for pest control and cute and furry enough. They ate birds, right? Maybe this one was just more ambitious than most. Was certainly on the larger end of the scale.

Come to think of it, looked pretty good for a stray. Unusual pattern, almost like a wild cat. One of those... Fuck, they were all over the facebook a while back. Sav-something. Thought those were like getting a purebred dog, though. Expensive and a bit shady if you didn't do your homework. Not the kind of kitty one would expect to find roaming Avondale.

Unbothered by the cat's signs of aggression, he shook his head and sighed. No collar he could see, but the lighting wasn't great. Maybe a microchip? Someone was probably missing it. And it was pretty definitely hungry, in here hunting. Inconvenient, but seemed only one clear course.

"Welp. Let's get you inside, bud." he spoke more softly now, going for a soothing tone since the words themselves would be meaningless. For a moment he began slowly extending an empty hand down, careful not to get too close too fast. Housecat, sure, but fuck if they didn't have sharp pieces to 'em. He was ready to pull back if this began seeming a real dumb idea. More than already.
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#9
For all the viciousness the small feline might have been displaying, the man was seemingly unbothered. Perhaps the terror of the fact that she could not scare him back for even a moment was what subdued her into licking at her lips and flickering her head in a quick shake, her skin prickly from the tension of her hairs standing on end. A low growl would still rumble soundly through her chest as she stared up at the man, frustrated and frightened at how cornered she felt. When the hand moved in, she would rear backward, a paw reeling upward in preparation to swipe a mean paw at it if it moved too quickly. Instead, it was a slow, tentative move, paired with a tone that was distinctly different. Parker would blink her crystalline eyes at the words that did register. Inside, bud. He was being kind. She killed a chicken, and he had a gun, but he was being kind. Stunned and puzzled, she did nothing to move away from the grabbing hand.
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#10
Okay. Okay good. Looked to be calming a bit. Lent some credence to his budding theory about being a lost pet. Familiar with people, comfortable with being petted. With being picked up? Risky. But the alternative was lowering the lid, barricading the chicken entrance, and... then what? He'd have it contained, but wouldn't be able to call the shelter, get anyone to come out until morning at best. And in the meantime, where would he put the chickens? No, if it was somebody's, this should work out okay. And if it wasn't... Well, wasn't impossible it was a bobcat kitten. Angry mother come tearing out of the dark any second. That'd be a great cap to the night.

Of all the readily apparent possibilities, Shane knew where his money lay. Kay then.

"Good bo- Uh, kitty." Defaulted to his voice for babying the dogs. The arm still balancing the gun let it slip down till the barrel hit dirt, maneuvered it to lean against the coop. Good enough. He'd come back out for it before rounding up the birds. "Yeah, such a kitty," he continued in his softest tone, gingerly attempting to run one finger, then two, over the ear tips. Scratch lightly at the top of the head. Or retreat and try again if necessary. "Just wanted a widdle snack." Unfortunate about the chicken. But pets were family. Family was important.

Releasing the shotgun fully to free up both hands, he slowly reached the second in as well, hoping for a gentle scooping up under the armpits, but ready to transition any successful head scratches into a bit of a scruff grab if it seemed necessary.
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#11
He was speaking to her as if he would a pet or an infant. Parker remained still, wary of the gun, though she heard it clunk against the side of the coop as he stroked at her ears. Her chest ached from the hammering of her heart, and she would scrunch her neck inward as the stroking fingers continued. The touch was unexpected, but she preferred it over rough grabbing or swatting. He was not going to harm her, but he was definitely going to pick her up. What if he took her indoors, and she could not escape before she was exhausted enough to shift back? There was promise of warmth, shelter from the snow and cold, possibly a meal. But, it was too risky. She would let him lift her enough so that she could see a clear path to jump away from the coop. When she was high enough, her back feet would press into his chest, and she would wriggle in attempt to free herself, intending to be gentle for now, not wanting to truly startle him.
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#12
"There you go," he cooed, pleased as the thing seemed to be warily permitting the contact. Took it as further evidence for lost pet. Wild creature wouldn't have likely allowed it at all, not with the size difference, potential threat he posed and all. Definitely thinking this thing had positive experience with humans. Good.

He lifted slowly, supporting the chest and forelimbs in one hand and beginning to cradle the rear legs with his other arm as he got the cat off the ground. The squirming, when it began, drew a quiet expletive, though he kept the tone gentle. "Shit, no, it's okay." Didn't want to do this, but also didn't want to get seriously scratched. Arms were well protected in his coat. Hand under the armpit would be hard to reach with the front paws, and the rear were suddenly stretching slightly, pressed into his chest. His chest protected only by the loose folds of an old robe. Didn't want them digging in. Didn't want the thing panicking.

The hand not on the cat's chest went again for the scruff, more deliberately now. Had to get ahold, force the physical relaxation. "Easy, bud."
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#13
No, oh no. He sought to calm her, keep her in his grasp, probably assuming she was some fussy house cat. She was, more or less, some fussy house cat. Further than that, however, she was a cat that would later turn back into a girl, a naked one at that. She had to get away. And while Parker did not want to hurt this man, she was given no other option but to let out a frustrated yowl as she pushed harder against his chest, struggling away from his hand as it went for the scruff. Her back toes splayed, and the claws tugged and caught on the folds of the robe, but caught nothing else.



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#14
Oh come on, cat. Do you want to be alone out in the cold? Because this is how you get alone out in the cold. Shane was annoyed, but that was hardly news. The thing seemed on the verge of panic and if he could just...

While the claws didn't manage to find purchase in skin—thanks for that—the redoubled effort to springboard off his chest came with significantly more force than he'd been ready to deal with. It was a cat, for fuck's sake. His attempt to get a hold of the back of the poor thing's neck—yeah, even annoyed he understood why it maybe didn't want a stranger, who had recently made an unbelievably loud noise, taking away its autonomy—were thoroughly stymied as the surprising strength of the thing's rear legs threw off balance he hadn't expected to need.

Robe flying up with a gust as he fell back, bare ass landed in dirty snow. The surprise gift of a frigid near-enema was more than enough to steal the feeble remains of his grip, cat free of his deliberate grasp while he was left contemplating his life choices.


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#15
In a perfect world, she would have flown through the air and landed on her feet safely in a pile of snow, and no harm would have come to either of them. This was not a perfect world, however. The claws that had hooked themselves into the fabric of the robe would become tangled as they soared backward toward the earth. And while the hold on her underarms released, she still would yowl noisily in a panic as they fell. Her front legs would move so that she could wrap her paws over a shoulder, grabbing and scrambling as she kicked wildly and aggressively against the robe that untangled her feet. Somewhere in the process of scrambling over his shoulder and using him as a springboard, sharp claws would swipe at exposed skin, drawing blood easily. She did not have the state of mind in the moment to realize how dire of a mistake that truly was. In the moment, she cared only about launching away, and pushing through the snow at a speed that was nearly impossible for the human she was leaving behind, bleeding and half naked in the snow, to see.


a hit for just any instance of her claws getting skin

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#16
It was the cold that had his attention. Most of it. For a brief moment he wasn't even aware the cat was still on him, focused pretty heavily on the ice crystals cradling his testicles. The struggling creature was hard to ignore, however. Any efforts he made were mildly torn between trying to free its claws without catching any of them and try to hold onto its form. Right about as torn as the left side of his chest.

Neither endeavor proved successful, sav-whatever sprinting off into the darkness as he held his hands close to his wound, processing all that had just occurred. 'Wound' was a bit dramatic. Blood welled up, began to trickle down to pool against his sternum. Less than ideal. Still, just a fucking cat scratch. A hand pressed tight against the mark to stem the flow as he stared up at the night. Too cold and uncomfortable and with too much needing doing to lie there long, he still took a moment to try and assess, make a list of all he needed to do next.

Dead chicken to dispose of. Maybe stew. Maybe risky. Figure it out. Get proper dressed because fuck it was cold. Probably put a pot of coffee on. Apologize to the crated dogs upstairs, no doubt in a bit of a panic themselves following the gunshot. Gather up the scattered chickens. In the dark. Maybe examine this scratch, make sure it didn't need anything. Doubted a bandage would even be necessary, but would need to get a better look. See if anyone had reported a missing cat. Maybe try and sleep again. Maybe just have a dart.

Sighing, he let his vast irritation drip from the one word that seemed appropriate just then.

"Kay."
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