Networking

Who: Doc, messages to Oz, Grayson
Where: The Martens residence
When: early afternoon

Oh lord, was there ever work to do. Out in the garage, Doc was pacing eagerly in front of the open furnace, clad in an a-shirt and old jeans, basking in the heat as he held his phone to his ear and a beer in his free hand. He'd seen the news, and what was more, he was getting calls.

Only one had been a task of War, to boot, and that had been something completely unrelated to the dawning knowledge of shapeshifters living among the world. He almost would've preferred that, really, to the calls he was getting: hunters.

A few of them hadn't spoken to Doc in almost a decade, and even then they'd been work-partners only. Another two? Well, they were trusted associates once upon a time, and their calls were less worrying, but only marginally so. Some people were just looking for a consensus about what to do, others were trying to form one.

Once, he heard the suggestion of a road trip; the crass idea that four or five of them should link up in New York and catch the shifters who'd revealed themselves. And even if it turned his stomach, Doc kept his cool, declined easily, made vague references to other things he was tending to.

The last of those calls had been ten minutes ago, murmured assurances to an old friend to keep cool and try to keep the local peace, and now? Well, now he needed to get some word out. "Oz," Doc finally said when his voicemail clicked over, "Doc here, hoping you remember me. I know it's been a while since we talked."

He laughed without humor, taking a quick swig of beer and clearing his throat. "I'm going to assume you're up to speed on national news. If not, I doubt it'll take long. We should talk soon, I think. And if you or anyone you know hits some trouble, let me know. I'll be keeping an eye out for reactionaries. Stay safe."

Hanging up, Doc moved to his work bench to set his beer aside, swapping it for a cigarette. He lit up with a deep sigh, feeling dark days ahead weighing on him and silently hoping the others were really read. That thought left his thumb lingering over Grayson's number in his phone for just a moment too long...

The feeling rose up in his chest, swelling tight and white-hot, making Doc lean forward onto the workbench as his mind flooded with details. A name, a face, a location... "Burma? Fucking Burma?" he muttered, moving for his coat and pistol as he let Grayson's number dial out. A quick keystroke sent him right to voicemail; an option Teddy had given him for those times when he just didn't have time to actually talk.

"Grayson, it's me," he said, pressing the phone between shoulder and ear as he belted on his pistol, "I only have a few minutes here. Things are getting bad, you know it I'm hoping. We all need to talk soon, be ready for a sit-down. If you see her, tell Jocelyn I didn't have a chance to call. Both of you stay safe, stick to Babylon if you can, I'll be in touch."

He hung up and gave into the feeling, sliding across space with a silent hope that Kayos would get word from someone. Too tired to keep dancing, he mused as he faded from the garage, The damn shame is that I can't forget the steps...