Armchair Warrior

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] ping ping ping ping

A fingernail against the sweating side of a foaming beer. The nose is lost quickly- not something that carries- or even something that registers in the rangy cop's usually sharp ears. The one tell- the only one he is never, ever able to suppress.

Sure, he cuts a stylish, menacing figure. Lean strength, and the boneless confidence often carried in those to sprang from the concrete and bullets construction of the deceptively pretty city around them. One arm slung across the back of the booth, and Eddie sits slightly to the side. The dim off- lighting glinting now and then from sharp, olive features as he looks around. Watches the other patrons. Only truly sharp eyes would ever catch that

ping ping ping ping as one finger strikes like a snake against the sweating glass again and again.

[Imogen Slaughter] She cuts a memorable figure. A slight, indomitable woman with brilliant hair and skin so pale that it likely shows every mark. Every harsh touch.

A woman who moves through a crowd as if they were mere objects in the way of her goal, and not people chattering and laughing, carrying on their conversations.

She wears jeans, a linen shirt loose about her torso, a pale camisole beneath which keeps the sheer fabric from being indecent. Her hair is up - her hair is always up, twisted and pinned, coiled at the nape of her neck. Tendrils are loose, falling free to brush the skin of he temple, her cheek, her chin. She pushes them back.

He had not seen the moment the good doctor saw him, and in the crowd, does not know if she had been with others, or if she had been drinking alone. He does see her as she comes his way.

"Detective Vaako," when she's close enough to be heard, coming up to the table's edge. A copper eyebrow arches as she balances her beer, cocked between her hand and a table corner.

"Fancy company?"

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] Just after the hard- eyed, knee- jerk flicker of suspicious domination that seems drilled into cops everywhere, Eddie's face registers surprise. Not unwelcome surprise, either. His lips twitch slightly, absently- he smooths an eyebrow, gestures to the booth with the pass of one hand.

"Hey Doc. Not at all. My imaginary friends always move over for co- workers."

There is perhaps a pass of eyes across her. He does nothing to point it out. Indeed, the older man might have enough experience in the wreck and pull of city social life to mask anything like that entirely. When she's settled, the pinging becomes more audible. Then, suddenly, stops. The finger poised as though listening. Quiet. Relaxed.

"Not playing tonight?" Pale eyes flicker over her shoulder for a moment, hanging against a familiar, and less welcome face. Then pass back to hers. They might soften just a bit around the edges. A relaxation of crow's feet hammered into place by squinting at the same things she looks at, arranged in more macabre detail.

[Imogen Slaughter] She takes her seat on the other side of the booth, settling herself, straight backed against the cushions before lifting her beer for a deep swallow.

"No," the answer is surprisingly firm, unyielding. "I'm not." A beat, and then an explanation as if it might soften her undeniable negation, "Not in the mood."

His eyes had moved behind her at another face, and she is not so overt as to twist to see for herself. Instead, an eyebrow lifts up, an arch expression.

"Is there someone behind me?"

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] The tall, lean cop nods amicably enough. Pursing his lips, he considers her face for a second, then his sharp gaze falls to her beer. Then his own. "Sure thing." Its no more important than that on the surface. The catch is that she plays well. Well enough that the lack is missed. It only dwells in the back of his head for a moment. Casual. Something more felt than noticed outright. Her question doesn't sink in for several moments.

Eddie waves a hand in front of his face. "No- no. Just a guy I know. From work. You know. Never expect the assholes you stare at every day to have a social life. S'nothing."

He tips the beer back, pale eyes flicking back to Imogen as his adam's apple bobs.

"Bad day?" An offering that would be tentative.. but the doctor does not seem like a woman easily bruised by words. He's coming to understand that if she doesn't want to answer, she just won't. No fireworks. No madness. Nothing to cite PMS in the minds and hearts of stodgy old men like him. Just won't. Its easy.

That doesn't make it less curious to him.

[Imogen Slaughter] Bad day?

Her mouth twists slightly, sharply. "You could say that." She sets down her bottle deliberately, taking her hand away and setting it flat on the table. The wood dispels the cool damp memory of the glass. She leans back against the bench's cushions.

"I don't think I know o' many cops who refer t'the perpetrators the same way they'd refer t'a colleague," she observes.

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] He watches Imogen's face closely for a moment. She could be making idle conversation, after all. Soon enough he clears his throat, tilts his head down for a moment to smooth one eyebrow with a finger.

His own hands settle around the damp ring of the base of the glass, and he nods to himself.

"Most don't. That's why I'm better at the job than they are."

He blinks once, lazily. The confidence doesn't seem out of place. His reputation, or what it was at one time, would seem to back it up. The next moment, he's Ed again. The twisted cop. The caricature of another, harder time.

He raises the glass, casting his eyes back to her. "So.. what happened?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She does not make idle conversation. Every reply has a purpose, every comment a reason. Even when she answers a question without an answer, there is thought behind it, a decision made, a deliberate perception given.

So she asked a question. When he answers, she listens. "Perhaps," she concedes.

After a moment, she picks up her beer again and takes a drink. There is no one on stage now, just the piped in music, standard pub fare - pop and rock, playing over the intercom.

He asks her, in essence, what is wrong, and her mouth twists slightly.

"That's very kind," she says, mirthlessly wry, "but you don't want to hear about my problems."

Her attention moves, sliding over the crowd before it comes back again. "Tell me instead how things are wi' you and the Nation. Any startlin' revelations or questions?"

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] Familiarity, or such as it could be, wells up under Eddie's skin. She has had a bad day. For now, he plays along.

"Pretty much got that cased for now, I think. Adam moved back out. Family back in town, sounds like. You know- the uh.. ones she came with are back now. So they're off doing whatever they do. Painting toenails. Killing things."

He shrugs, but his eyes fall to his hands for a second. Another slow blink, and the customary content, wry expression curves like a snake across him again. Deceptively languid.

[Imogen Slaughter] She pauses, briefly.

"Has anyone told you tha' we're now considered at war?"

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] "Thought we've always been."

The deadpan tone doesn't disguise the question. Nor the faintly keyed up posture. He never quite shifts. Not exactly. The cold ease of a python in the moment before striking.

[Imogen Slaughter] He deadpans. She smirks, pausing to take a final drink from her bottle, setting it on the edge of the table for a waitress to pick up.

"They are. I get th'impression tha' they're splittin' hairs. They've chosen to begin attackin' some o' the outlying areas that they've known for a while - years - is corrupted."

a pause while the waitress comes. Imogen orders another beer. The waitress asks Eddie if he would like anything else before moving away again, deftly weaving through the crowd, holding her tray out of the way of moving patrons.

The rhythm of their conversation is broken, but the doctor does not take much effort to retain it.

"They're on the offensive. Which means so is the other side."

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] He'd meant to refute her claim that he didn't want to hear about her. Were someone to look at the two of them, they could well presume the detective still clinging to the shards of handsome meant far more than that.

Its forgotten for now. Eddie leans forward, the arm slung over the back of the booth coiling between his chest and the edge of the booth's table. Pale eyes gleam with interest as he nods briefly, then the impossibly deep boil of his voice strokes against the walls again.

"So what does that mean for us?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Emil leans forward, engrossed in the subject.

It would be foolish to think that Imogen had meant for anything less than this to happen. This is not all altruistic.

"It means it's more dangerous," she says. "We become targets because we have less protection, and because the Garou see any attacks upon as a personal affront. In the last three weeks, a kinfolk has died, another was kidnapped, and two Garou were killed."

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] Pursed lips. Eddie leans back, wrists braced against the table as he watches Imogen with raised eyebrows.

"So.. generally speaking, how long is this going to last?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, "I don't know. Until they feel they've accomplished something, perhaps. Or perhaps when so many are dead they can no longer manage an assault."

Her shoulders move slightly, a shrug. "Or maybe until the wind blows from the east instead of the west. It's hard to say."

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] Eddie snorts, taking up his beer again with a distant chiming noise.

"Fuck's sake.. if that's as organized as it gets, no wonder they're losing."

Its deeper than that. Eddie's never been a father. Could honestly say he's never had paternal feelings at all. Mostly because its a lot harder to see such in another than it is to see in oneself. Pale eyes flicker back to the side, lingering at the distant bar for a moment. Anger, or disgust, eventually replaces the paternal feelings. Its easier.

"Wait- what am I saying. We're talking about a bunch of kids."

[Imogen Slaughter] A tension draws itself along her brow. "They are young, Detective, because they do not have the opportunity to grow old. And they are losing because every inch of this planet is covered by scabs and filled with humans whom they cannot use but the wyrm does at every opportunity."

This is broken by the waitress returning with Imogen's drink - she pauses in her speaking long enough to take the bottle, but never once looks away from the detective.

"If you think that organization is all that's required to win a war, I suggest you review your history books."

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] Good, argument. It blunts the edge of worry. Doesn't start the familiar sing of raw nerves and the feeling that something he can fix is happening right now. While he's sitting in a seat nursing a beer.

Eddie takes up the gauntlet, oddly grateful. he cuts a hand through the air as the beer settles with a clack against the table.

"That's true. Lots more goes into a war. I'd still say not being organized is the only thing guaranteed to lose one, though."

[Imogen Slaughter] "And I would say that it should take you much more information than you have to condemn them all to failure."

There is nearly no pause between his words and her reply. A blade thin microsecond between the end of his word and the start of hers.

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] "You'd think that, wouldn't ya. Benefit of armchair warriors everywhere, Doc. You get to have all the opinions."

He glares sourly at that face again, tips the beer, then swipes a finger angrily across his upper lip to deal with any lingering foam. As he settles the beer back down, he leans over one hand, the other lingers at the rim of the glass stein, turning it slowly as he stares at the grain of the wood.

[Imogen Slaughter] Several beats of absolute silence.

One would think that in a full pub, with music blaring and conversation all around, such a silence would not have impact, but it does. The utter stillness of her face, the clenching of her jaw.

"I have killed," she says quietly, her voice very even "more wyrm than you have ever seen, Detective Vaako. I have been scarred and I have nearly died. I have tried to save injured kinfolk, and I have had them live, and I have had them die. This week, I watched a Garou - one I knew well - laid out on his funeral pyre and burned.

"You know nothing about me." Among wolves, the baring of teeth is a sign of aggression. It seems that this is true with Imogen Slaughter as well. He has never seen her smile, but when she speaks, the curl of her lip offers a view of her teeth, even and white, a sign of her own aggression. "Or this war."

She gets to her feet, leaving her full beer where it is as she retrieves a bill fold from her purse.

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] Eddie snorts quietly. The sound rising and fading almost before he knows he's done it. Pale eyes fasten themselves on the Doctor as she makes to leave.

"Three times you've said that to me Doc. That I don't know anything about you." His own teeth gleam in the dim light. Answering aggression in kind. Unfocused. Primitive. Something that reaches from the dim and unremembered past, and an expression more suited to lighting the face of the True.

"Either accept it, or fucking change it. Shit. Maybe THAT way I can try my hand at consolation rather than just looking like an asshole. Have a nice night."

Other things occur to him. He's lost friends. People who mattered. Pride, foolishness, the simple mistakes of a lifetime... one or all of them close his mouth. He offers nothing. Raw with impending loss and too selfish to consider hers.

Instead he turns his head, watches the crowd again. His eyes are smoky and half- lidded.

[Imogen Slaughter] He speaks. She drops her cash on the table, covering the cost of her drink and including a rather hefty tip. Maybe that way I can try my hand at consolation -

She interrupts him, speaks over him, whichever he allows, leaning forward, one hand resting on the table.

"I don't want your bloody consolation. Or your pity. Yer understanding. But do not demean me. Surely you need nothing more than common decency to manage that."

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] "Demean you? What the hell are you talking about?" Frustration laces itself through dark features. "No I'm serious!" He studies the woman's face for a second, and drops it suddenly. "I'm not going to guess." He shakes his head, tilts his beer back again. The gesture final. It lands back on the table with a sharp clack.. then he looks at her again suddenly.

"...Oh. Yeah. I get it."

[Imogen Slaughter] She stares at him a moment, and then straightens up, deliberately adjusting her purse to better settle on her shoulder.

"Yeah," she says, quietly, almost to herself.

"Goodnight, Detective Vaako."

With that, she leaves. A few nearby patrons follow her with their eyes, glancing between her and the police officer. Their impressions of the altercation could not be any farther than the truth.

[Emil 'Eddie' Vaako] The sheepishness vanishes in a moment as, lifting his glass again, Eddie quirks an eyebrow at one of the nosy patrons, and raises his middle finger. The motion is grave, deliberate, and the last time Eddie speaks to anyone but the waitress for the rest of the night. Waitresses give not a damn if you're a little slow on the uptake. Nope.

That's why they get the tips. And the ulcers.