singularity: sinclair.

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] [*BSHING!* Faerie Light! -2 (5A)]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] Even enfeebled as he is, draped across a hispo's back like some strange new fashion accessory, Maddox holds on, and calls forth the pale light of his gift. It bobs up over Lukas' head, the Theurge unable even to lift his own to look around and guide it forward to light their way.

I am amazing. They really don't deserve me.

[Brutal Revelation] Sinclair rolls her eyes at Maddox, huffing out a breath as she helps him onto Lukas's back. "Keep it up, smartass," she says, without malice, and pats him on the shoulder before turning away, taking up the lead once more. In homid. No reason for that, really, other than the fact that should something come at them, she or Kate should be at the lead. And really, strong as Katherine has become, she's still not the fighter that Sinclair is. The killer that Sinclair is. The monster.

Of course they see that other side of her so easily. The wolf that, come the waning gibbous moon, is weaker than she ever is but even then stronger than most in the sept. The wolf that so recently nearly tripped over some emotional cliff into harano but seems to be climbing out of it with a deeper self-awareness than she had the last time she lived here. The wolf who showed up tonight, who they haven't seen since the night of Sarita's challenge for auspice eldership. She's a predator, seems to be born one. There was one a member of her tribe who, after watching her bloody a more experienced Garou in a challenge ring when she was still a fresh Cliath, assumed that here was no techno-shaman, no pissant homid-born, but some kind of Fenrir-esque warrior, raised in battle and bloodshed.

He had no idea. He wouldn't have known what to think of this wolf being the same one whose voice, while not coddling, is still somehow soothing and reassuring to Maddox, a near-stranger. He wouldn't know what to do with the wolf who stops dead in the corridor when she sees the door ahead, her shoulders and hands tightening, her face going blank and hard. Hard as titanium, the same metal that lines her ears and is pierced through her bicep. There's only one piercing she has that is made of anything else.

Then she sees the numbers on it, and she tightens up a little bit more on herself, folding inward, hurt and angry. And they haven't even gone through yet.

Still, and this is because she is a Fostern nearing Adren, this is because she's Unbroken, this is because she's only frenzied once since her days in that cell and never once on the man who lives in 318 and and and all that matters

so she walks forward, wordless, and kicks open the door.

[Echoes of Laughter] She grins at Wyrmbreaker, chuckling a little bit when he nips, and heads on along. The curving spiral has gotten repetitive enough that it's starting to great on her...she isn't superstitious, but damn if the continual trip down doesn't get her on a bit of an edge. The dirtying of the walls doesn't help much either, though at least it's not totally sterile. (Sorry Kate.) That shit is a bit creepy.

When the door comes into view, she comes to a stop. Her eyes widen and she looks it over, at it's impressive (oppressive) fortitude. "Holy hell. That's...pretty terrifying."

[-singularity-] These doors are deeply personal for them. Even if they're just ... something randomly conjured up. An dwarven door of myth. An ornate cathedral door. When they see their own door, they recognize it.

Sinclair's is -- as Sarita puts it -- pretty terrifying. Perhaps it causes one of the others look at her askance, but it doesn't slow her down a bit. The Galliard strides forward and boots that motherfucker open. In real life, x years ago, she might've tried that too. Battered her fists bloody against that unyielding door. No effect then.

In this world, the door flies open. There's a terrific crash when it hits the wall. Inside, the room is six-sided. There's a figure in the middle, waiting,

but it's not blank.


It's Sinclair. Of a sort, anyway. It's Sinclair in a smart, sharp pantsuit, perfectly tailored. Her hair is smooth and silky, the sort of golden blonde that breathes money, breathes upkeep. It's pulled back and up in an elegant, severe chignon. There are no piercings on her body, no tattoos visible. Just a sleek, modernist watch on her wrist.

She's unarmed, but she doesn't need to be armed. Threat bleeds off this Sinclair like heat off a star.

"Well, look who finally made it this far," she snarls.

[Brutal Revelation] Suddenly she wonders if Maddox just came up with a door, or if it meant something to him the way that this one means something -- many thing -- to her. It haunts her. If she has nightmares, some of them take place in that room. If she has moments of self-doubt, if she has moments of self-loathing, if she thinks about the core, the source, the beginning of the things that erode the ground she stands on now, she thinks of conversations in that room, she thinks of things she was told when she was finally let out of it, she thinks of all the ways that room comes to mind every time she feels trapped, or blocked,

helpless,

stuck like this.


The slender hand contrasts beautifully against the tailored cuff of the pale blue blouse, and she remembers this even though she was sedated at the time. Neat manicure. The photograph being laid down on the steel table by those lovely fingers is a printout from a surveillance camera, and the image is blurry, even with Walker tech.

"Do you know who that is?"

It takes her a moment to find the will to answer. The drugs hit her spirit and body both, addle her mind. She'll find out later why, she'll find out later that there are such things as Awakened tranquilizers and they use that so they don't have to deal with putting their tribesmates in silver when they're just cubs. She sniffs.

"Hommm." Breathes in, tries again. "Homeless guy?"

Regina's eyes are brilliant-dark, ferociously intelligent, a black wall against a tidal force of rage. "His name was Kenneth." Another photo, rustling faintly, is laid down on the steel beside the first. "And that's what he looked like when you were done with him."

The photograph, like the first, is black and white. Sinclair frowns at it, confused for a moment. Drowsily, dreamlike, she asks: "Is all that blood?"


In real life, not nearly enough years ago, she clawed the fuck out of that door. Would wake up surrounded by shavings of titanium. Would marvel, while trembling, at her own strength.


Sinclair hesitates, seeing that it's not a blank figure. She can't tell this one it's not even a copy. It looks like her. It looks like Failsafe wanted her to look, the clothes Failsafe bought her, the intact ears and pristine skin she had when she left for college and not the marred, modified self she became. Scarred. Even Alex doesn't like the markings on her back; she notices he doesn't look at them much, doesn't really touch her lower back, and she turns that side of herself away from him usually since she's pretty, pretty sure it bothers him. They don't even --

She takes a breath, remembering what she saw in the last room, what she saw when the lights went out and Maddox's light stayed on. The version of her she might have been snarls at her.

Sinclair raises an eyebrow. "You realize I don't have much of an issue with accomplishment, right? Onoz, I didn't get far enough, fast enough. Onoz, I'm not better than everyone else. Onoz, my packmates are higher-ranked than me." She puts up her hands, waggling them in a mock-flail, then drops them. "I made the fucking door, all right? I may as well be asking you what took you so long to show up."

[Honor's Compass] Katherine does not hesitate to step into that room after Sinclair.

In another lifetime, or a few of them actually ago, she might have -- she might have had something witty to say, or a rebuke for the way Sinclair just kicks the door down. Time ... was a funny mistress. She could be at once healing and horrid, could offer acceptance and the brutality of perfect memory. The doors are deeply personal, it does not take much for Honor's Compass to see sight of that heavy, foreboding door and know, with a little turn of her stomach inward, an anxiety not her own, for her own self preservation -- but that of the Glass Walker ahead of her.

She steps in, and is at once beside Sinclair, looking over this stylized version.

She glances at her sister once or twice, but stays silent. She's there though, a little glowing support.

[Echoes of Laughter] And right beside the Philodox is the Ragabash. There's no pause, no wariness. She has no need for it; she is here with her packmates. Sarita is on Sinclair's side at the opposite side as Katherine, hands on her hips. She raises a brow, looking other-Sinclair over. She leans into her packmate--the REAL one--just briefly, giving her a quick look and a smile.

She is by no means alone here. Not that this wasn't obvious, but...y'know.

[-singularity-] The previous simulacra, they were imperfect and evolving copies. They turned into whoever they tried to mimic. They tried to speak like them. Tried to speak as though they were them.

This one is different. They're deeper now -- past the surface layers -- past the initial gloss, the cleanness, the purity. In to where the walls aren't so white anymore. To where the lights can't stay lit very long, can't stop flickering. To where there's rust in the corners and dirt on the floor

and other, darker smudged.


(Is all that blood?)


The Sinclair that looks the way Regina wanted her to look smirks. "Oh, no, of course not," she says. "We don't have any issues with accomplishment. Look at us, almost Adrens. So fucking strong. I bet if we went toe to toe with any Ahroun -- even that big one over there -- we'd have a fighting chance.

"No, that's not our problem at all. Our problem is -- "

just like that, she breaks off, looks at the limp thing draped over Wyrmbreaker's back. "Oh, god, how pathetic. Couldn't even win on level one, could he? And now he's falling apart. He's not going to survive, you know. Looks worse than I would've expected, actually."

Those blue eyes, flashing and fierce, pin Midnight Sun.

"Your fault?"

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] [Maddox got 4 rounds of Faerie Light, plus this in case it's needed!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Brutal Revelation] The non-her sneers at Margaret and Sinclair steps forward, her brow furrowing. "Hey, back off, thundercunt, she was trying to help him."

[Honor's Compass] "Leave her alone."

Katherine adds with a level look at the other Sinclair; the harsher version. The version that, were it not for what she was, and who she resembled, might have passed for a member of Katherine's own tribe with that sneer, that attitude. She hesitates as Sinclair says -- well -- and firms her lips so she doesn't smile.

[Echoes of Laughter] Her eyes flash at Anti-Sinclair getting snarky, and then Sinclair speaks up juuuust fine on her own. Katherine may not smile, but Sarita does. In fact, she grins widely.

"Yeah. What the real you said."

[-singularity-] "Shut up, me-two," not-Sinclair says, offhand. "You'll get your turn. And as for you, prissy pink princess," that would be Kate, "keep your mouth shut before I spit on you and send you screaming out of here."

"It wasn't Midnight's fault," Wyrmbreaker asserts again, taking a step forward, fur bristling around Maddox. He's unconscious now. Merciful, probably.

"Oh, bullshit," not-Sinclair snaps. "Be the good fucking leader if you have to, but don't feed them blatant feel-good lies. She should've seen what she was doing and stopped. She should've had the wits and the intelligence to quit killing her own. Some fucking Theurge, that.

"And while I'm on the topic, it's his own damn fault too. Maybe you people are too nice to say so, but you all know it. If that snarky bastard hadn't been so close mouthed on what Level One was whispering to him, maybe he wouldn't be in this mess. Maybe if he'd let you guys help him, he would've squeaked past his door -- just like Ms. Cocky Chicana here. You think you actually won against Level Two, babycheeks? Level Two was just too stupid to hit you where it would've really hurt.

"You're out of your league here. You've always been out of your league. How, for instance, are you going to lead a whole Septful of Ragabashes? They ran off doing their own thing, and you didn't even know. How are you going to be a leader to them when you can't even get your own sister to quit acting like a --

"What was it you said, me-two? Cock juggling thundercunt?"

[Echoes of Laughter] She smirks. "Wow. Well, Level Three's got its flaws too, because sweetheart, them Ragabashes were doing their thing on their own before I stepped up. Within three I was at Roman's door. So try that one again, eh?"

[Honor's Compass] "This prissy pink princess could kick your inferior ass back into the sludge you crept out of," Katherine remarks with easy disdain. Her lip curls back in a sneer that is a match for the not-Sinclair's own. "If anyone is out of their league and knows it, it's you, my off the rack recycled suit wearing carbon copy.

You are, to borrow from some pop culture reference I do not remember the name of but Sarita will, so last season."

[Brutal Revelation] The Unbroken are rallying. No surprise, there: none of them are fools, and this is their third room. Their third corrupted mirror. Level Three, as though that's its title, its name, its Self. Sinclair stands with Katherine and Lukas and Sarita as they defend Midnight Sun, and as not-her lashes out at them. Spit on you and send you screaming it threatens Kate, the pretty pink princess, the neat freak, the crazy Fang.


she's so fucking weak


And at Wyrmbreaker, too, the good fucking leader with his good little speeches and his feel-good lies


god, you are so full of yourself sometimes


And Midnight Sun, who should have seen what she was doing and maybe they're just too nice to say that maybe if Maddox hadn't been such a snarky bastard he wouldn't be unconscious, deadweight, fucking useless to the pack, what the fuck, Wyrmbreaker, how many more worthless Garou are you going to saddle us with? Edward, Caleb, Iona, Theron, even that pissant Christian ended up just running off like a little emo shithead.


Sinclair takes a breath and exhales. It snaps at Sarita that she only succeeded because she didn't get hurt in a truly weak spot, and Sinclair knows that weak spot, she's seen it since before Sarita was bound to them, and mated off and some other Garou's problem now or not, that's still her weak spot, and by god you'll defend that crazy little bitch for any stupid shit she pulls, won't you? You would. You'd give her seven shots of tequila and a loaded shotgun if she said all the other Kin were possessed and she needed to kill them to set them free, wouldn't you? Jesus Christ, Sarita...

Sinclair gives a sharp shake of her head as her not-self goes right for that weak spot even as she's thinking of it, and frankly

not-her is gentler than Sinclair's own thoughts. Her eyes snap open on the simulacrum as it finally addresses her again. She pushes down the part of her that is hearing Katherine and Sarita and, well.

Rolling her fucking eyes.


She takes another breath. "C'mere," she tells the thing, beckoning. But she doesn't just beckon. Walks forward, unhesitant, right at the thing. "Come here," she snaps, and by then she's at it, and grabbing its throat. Not to crush. To push up against one of those six walls, to hold her still.

[-singularity-] The truly frightening thing, perhaps, is that the not-Sinclair -- who calls herself Level Three, because of course she would, she's the uberWalker -- isn't even really lashing out at the others. Just halfassed little potshots. Offhanded and backhanded. Like flicking a whip at a herd of half-feral animals to watch them bristle, watch them puff up,

to watch Sinclair rear up in their defense, even as her own mind takes what's been said and echoes it so viciously.

So fucking weak
so full of yourself
stupid blind theurge
useless deadweight
blind, stupid, rolling over for your crazy fucking sister.

Sinclair puts an end to it. She beckons the not-her but she doesn't wait for it to come; it's not coming anyway. She grabs it by the throat and pushes it against one of the walls, those walls that are a little closer every level down, the room a little smaller, the sides one less. A circle, an octagon, a heptagon, and now a hexagon. Down and down and down, shrinking to nothing.

Not-Sinclair laughs as her back hits the wall. It's a vicious sound, utterly without the joy and playfulness and lovingness Sinclair is capable of. It spits laughter at her, one strong hand coming to grip Sinclair's wrist, but not to tear her grasp away.

To hold her right there.

"That's right," she says. "That's what you know best. I knew it all along. If you can't deal with it any other way, you just shut it up. Beat it up. Kill it.

"God, look at you. You think you're normal now? You think just because you told your family what you are, that they accepted you? That you're normal now? You think just because that asshole you're dating came back, you're going to be fine now? Normal? Happy? Gonna bake him a pecan pie on his birthday, have a nice white wedding, drop some cute little tykes off with your folks and live an all-American life when you're a fucking nine foot monster?

"Wake up, Sinclair. You are what you are. You're made for war and death. Anything else you think you have is temporary, and you know it. How long do you think it'll be before you have a bad day? How long before it's not me you've got up against a wall but that boyfriend of yours? Or your cousin? Or your own kid? Or one of your weak little packmates?"

[Honor's Compass] Honor's Compass winces as the Not-Sinclair laughs and is pushed against a wall; the walls that are slowly shrinking, just as Sinclair's concern had been, projected over the totemic link to the Unbroken earlier. The laughter is jarring, unwelcome. In another form the Silver Fang would be whining in unease.

Perhaps baring her teeth.

Here though, now though, she is all but helpless to aid her sister. If she even needs it. Physically, Katherine has never been a match for her as much as she may casually posture kicking the imposter Sinclair's ass she is aware it is all but impossible. Maybe on a bad day for the Galliard, maybe on a very bad day with one arm tied behind her back ...

The Half Moon's pale eyes narrow as the speechifying goes on. She takes Sarita's hand without much thought toward it, gives it a squeeze as if she knows the other woman's thoughts without a word being said. Looks toward Lukas, at Margaret.

Then back at the battling Sinclair's.

[Echoes of Laughter] Katherine's eye narrow; Sarita's jaw sets. Her back stiffens, and she bites back the urge to say something vicious in response. No, not a weak point. Not at ALL. She squeezes the Philodox's hand in response. No one denies that weakness, not even Sarita. She may justify, and she has her reasons...her viewpoints. But it's a sore point for sure.

Pwn 'er, comes over the pack link. [i[We got yer back, always.[/i]

[Brutal Revelation] She could interrupt. Cut the thing off. Snap its neck, really, break it in half if she just called on Perun -- she might not even need to shift to kill with a single gesture. She's terrifying. What was it she once tried to teach Katherine? Even the ground is a weapon, if you slam your opponent into it hard enough, face-first, maybe do it twice for good measure. Hopefully on asphalt. But ultimately it's your own two hands. Your own claws and teeth. There is no weapon greater than oneself. Folded steel can't get this strong, razors can't become this sharp.

That was one thing Failsafe taught her that she's never ignored because of her loathing for her once-mentor. She tattooed words that Ahroun quoted at her into her hip, carries them with her. Her not-self spits that truism back at her, says that's all she can do, just kill it if you can't deal with it, shut it up, hurt it.


to kindness, to knowledge
we make promise only;
pain we obey.


She could shut this thing up. But she lets it finish. It knew it all along. She thinks she's normal know. Her family hasn't really accepted her. She's dating an asshole and she hasn't told anyone about the rest of it, she hasn't even talked to Alex about the fact that wanting to have cubs and being able to stop fighting long enough to bear them just isn't going to happen, nevermind the fact that she loves him and he's wonderful but she wouldn't want him raising a kid, even one he fathered

because even Alex isn't free from her scathing, brutal judgements. Even if:

"It's all true," Sinclair says quietly to the thing, and she just nods. Her voice is, strangely, quite calm. "Katherine's germophobia and the way we all pretend it's cute and special, but I haven't forgotten the time she ran out on a battle because she couldn't handle it. Lukas and his speeches, Lukas and his need to fix everything and everyone, Lukas and his ridiculous choices for prospectives. Sarita's monumental codependence. Margaret harping on cleansing when we're in the middle of a hunt. Maddox being a snarky, arrogant, useless addition to our evening thus far."

A beat. "Me being a monster. Me being a threat to my own. All that's true," she says softly. "Even the shit about me wanting to be normal."

Sinclair's quiet a moment, and then she slides not-herself down the wall, but still holds her there. Gradually unclenches her hand and takes a breath, letting her arm swing away. "But none of that is the end of the story, the end-all be-all of anyone here or outside. Katherine was the one who brought me down from a frenzy; I remember that, too. Lukas brought Sarita to us, and he brought Christian, and Asha, and I loved them. He also walked with me and stayed with me and tried to take care of me even when there was nothing he could do. Sarita fucking knows her weak spots and even if she's still learning how to let us help her with them, at least she doesn't pretend she's perfect. She's an amazing Ragabash, and frankly, it doesn't mean shit to me if she's the elder or not; she's ours, and she's one of the best I've ever seen.

"Maddox fucked up, bigtime. But he's also kept the light going even when he was bleeding from unhealable wounds, and that's worth something to me. Margaret made mistakes, too, but she's doing her damndest to take care of a near-total stranger and keep the Wyrm from invading the pack and that's absolutely what a Theurge should be thinking about even during a hunt."

She stares at the pale blue eyes of the thing that is not her and shakes her head. "We killed Kenneth. Killed Arthur. Left that first scar on Joey's neck, and yeah, she was a fucking turncoat bitch during my punishment rite but she never spoke of it again, never defamed or degraded me again, because she knew that I'd taken my punishment and it needed to be over. Nearly killed Charlie, and he was a real backwards little fuck, but y'know I hear he once summoned the Triptych, and males aren't supposed to be able to do that. We've been Wyrm-ridden twice, for god's sake. We abandoned our family to figure out the world of being Kinfolk for years, didn't even talk to them. We left our pack because our poor little heart got rearranged. Didn't we?" she asks, as though

accepting that this thing is herself. Her eyebrows are up a bit, then pull together again.

"So come here," she says, still quiet, staring at the unpierced, untattooed, pantsuit-wearing version of herself. "Come on in. You're part of me. You just aren't all of me."

[Brutal Revelation] [that's EXACTLY what a packmate should be thinking about blah blah blah]

[-singularity-] [ST note: initially my idea for this SL was just that the emanations are projections of the worst sides of their selves, capable of taking over/switching places with them if they didn't beat them. if they did beat them, that bad side would just go dormant again. but after sinclair's epic COME BACK IN post, i thought that idea worked so well that i just ran with it.]
to -singularity-

[Honor's Compass] There's a surge of shame that floods the Silver Fang at her sister's words, and while forgiveness is instant, it does make Katherine lower her eyes from the scene at hand and study the toes of her sneakers. She stares violently down at the rubber and pretends that there isn't scuffing there she'd polish away later on.

That her jeans are not marred and need spot cleaning. She was an Adren, not a Cub, such displays of weakness were the marks of a much lower rank. She remembers fleeing the battle in question. Remembers the overwhelming surge of panic, pure and unfiltered at how filthy she was and how many tiny germs were crawling all over her.

She remembers the dismayed and disgusted looks on the faces of those she fought with as she ran, sobbing, crawling out of a battle and sat on top of a sun-warmed boulder to cry into her palms.

The Silver Fang looks up, and catches her Alpha's eye for a moment. She remembers the pain of the blow Lukas had dealt her to return her to herself, too. Just as she'd helped hold Sinclair back, bring her back to herself once, as well. They were each of them Monsters with weaknesses.

But none of that is the end of the story.

Katherine breathes out, slowly.
Her mouth notches at a smile; one of grim satisfaction.

[Echoes of Laughter] There isn't as much shame that hits Sarita's expression when her monumental codependence is brought up. Yes, it stings. It does more than sting...but she's heard it much worse from others. Sinclair's said it worse before. Her eyes shut and she takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly and looking up. It's her turn to be the proactive supporter, leaning against Kate momentarily and squeezing her hand. She opens her eyes, looking to the Philodox and smiles a bit. She can see the way that the conversation is going, and she knows the light is coming after the acknowledgment of the darkness.

And it does. She nods to the Silver Fang...looks over at Lukas and Margaret, the unconscious Maddox. Another smile and then she looks back to the Sinclairs.

[-singularity-] You, the not-Sinclair calls her. Me, Sinclair calls herself -- but only for a time.

Only while she's owning up to the truth of what that dark shadow of her spits. Only when she admits that, yes, they're all flawed, yes, they're all fucked up, yes, that's the truth

... but not the entire truth. Just the vicious, judgmental truth that she can't help but give sometimes. Just the dark side of the truth, when there's more to it.

There's more to her. To them.

That's when the not-Sinclair's face changes. Not so mean. Not so cold and smirking and full of white, flashing teeth. Blanking, and then gaining personality again. Becoming more and more her own face, matching, until in those last seconds, quiet, still holding her shadow, Sinclair realizes she's only looking at herself. A mirror reflection, moving when she does. Speaking when she does.

You're part of me, the image says to her. Even the voice is the same, every note, every timbre. You just aren't all of me.


Who knows what really happened in those pitchblack instants when Maddox was -- tainted, or corrupted, or twisted somehow. Who knows what really happened, and how he lost, if he really lost. Who knows how Sarita won, if she really won. Not like this, anyway.

And perhaps that's all right. Perhaps it's different for all of them. No set way to unravel each riddle; nothing but their own instincts to guide them. Their own individual paths to victory, or salvation.


They can see what happens this time, though. The light flickers and falters. It tries to fade to black, but the Fianna's ghost-light stays alive -- still and pale. In that pure light, the false Sinclair is only a pale shadow of the real. Bidden forth, it stretches toward the real even as the false Maddox had stretched and distorted toward the real,

but it never touches her. Like images across a mirror, they come within a hairsbreadth of contact -- and then the false Sinclair simply dissipates away.


Light again. Sinclair stands alone, her double vanished. At some point during that vicious rant, Wyrmbreaker had started to move forward; thought better of it. At some point, his eyes met Katherine's, and perhaps she saw her own lash of humiliation and shame reflected in his eyes.

Now he draws a breath. He bumps his thick shoulder against Katherine as he passes, shoulder-high to a man, an enormous black beast. He pads to Sinclair and sits beside her, looking at the empty space where the not-Sinclair was a moment before he looks at the true Sinclair.

Maddox is a pale, thin cape on his back. There's room perhaps for some explanation -- why he recruits the wolves he does, why he makes the mistakes he does. In the end he doesn't say it. That was her speaking. That wasn't all of her. He just rests his chin briefly on her shoulder, his breath curling warm past her cheek. Then lifts his head and points his muzzle at the door, newly appeared.

[Sinclair] When Sinclair turns around and looks at the rest of them, there are tears in her eyes. And, frankly, fear. Some shame of her own.

"I'm sorry, guys," she whispers,

and Lukas rests his chin on her shoulder. She reaches up and -- as though he were a dog, the kind of dog her parents once gave her that could not [i]stand[/i] her so it had to be given away -- scritches him behind his ear. Clears her throat a little, and takes a breath, and just nods.

It's doubtful she'll be taking point again right away.