Police Ball

[Emil Vaako] At one point or another, the collection of cops and bureaucrats always start to tax their collective cop livers. That hour between 11pm and midnight is as much a matter of tradition as the speaker who opens the evening of the ball. As worn and regular as the recycled jokes and cue cards. This year proves no different.

It is, at least, entertaining. Generally stops well short of being embarassing or openly stupid. The other guests have been here before too, and they meet this part of the Ball with the aplomb of old soldiers who know what kind of evening is likely to be had when everyone is allowed to let their hair down for a night. No one gets too far out of line. Not so sloshed they don't know to take cabs home. There are exceptions. There are few exceptions.

Detective Niel's face is just slack enough to hint at being an exception. Only just. The man still focuses, his eyes don't swim across Imogen's face and hair. He does leer though. With the air of a man who's just SURE he's being gallant. Even engaging. A man who knows he's handsome too- and drunk or not, David is not mistaken on that score.

One elbow thumps against the bar. It sounds like meat dropped in a warehouse. Something primitive and unrestrained in the gesture slices across his demeanor. Vivid brown eyes go murky for a second under blonde eyebrows when his gaze flicks to Eddie. The smile is a thing of frozen white, before thawing again as his attention moves happily back to Imogen.

Deborah, who's form had been picked out of the crowd by one long, talon- like finger from the rangy detective, seems to have drawn many eyes. Many smiles. Even the sober ones- and all the faces bear a common note woven through the music of her artfully applied laugh. Rapt attention. Flavored with the spice of lust. Deborah's curves seem to snake through the conversation as she turns to speak to one, or to laugh at the jokes of another. She is the center of that small, small world.

The shimmering fall of her dark hair twitches as she turns her head, but it has never turned quite far enough to catch the quiet little tableau unfolding around Imogen. On the one hand, David all but pounding his chest like a monkey. On the other, Eddie's deceptively lazy, reptilian coiling to meet the quiet threat. Somewhere above her head, she can feel the laserbeam stare sweep slowly around to stare into Detective David Niel's face.

He remains oblivious after his not so subtle brush off of the hint he had clearly caught. Imogen as much the center of his little inebriated world as his wife was of a larger world across the room.

Perhaps this is the debris of those worlds colliding.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is not a curvaceous woman. Her body is lean, tight, slight, the dress skimming it, clinging to the flatness of her stomach, the narrow curve of hip and breast. The front of the dress is high, reaching the collarbone, while the back is low, plunging to just below the hip.

Women here are dressed to the nines, and Imogen is no exception. She wears this attire as easily as she wears her business suit - which is, outwardly perfect, while beneath the surface, not quite a perfect fit.

She has a fresh glass of wine, now, nearly untouched, and she picks it up, flicking an appraising glance Deborah's way when she's pointed out, dark eyes touching the woman, the men who surround her. Then back again, to the beautiful woman's husband.

"Perhaps you should have a glass of water," Imogen suggests coolly. "Or coffee. See if your wife can take you home."

The reminder is a hint.

[Emil Vaako] The warnings are deep, almost subconscious things. A slight buzz in the back of the redhead's mind just a moment before David's smile sweeps across his face again. He winks, and it seems the most perfectly applied gesture in the world. A strong jaw, a face that promises the pure, tempting solidarity of a world without restraint or a need to ever lack for anything. The Face will take care of it all. Very tempting indeed to some. The poison of complacency to others. Either way, David's demeanor demands a deep, emotional response. Want, or the deepest hatred.

...all one truly needs to be perfectly content with this man forever is the ability to ignore what the booze lays bare in the chocolate colored eyes. A little too much spice. The sort of spice that has gone rotten and toxic under a feverish, too bright sun. The sort that leads to sleeping lightly, with a gun under one's pillow.

Something peculiar occurs then. As the buzzing lights the back of Imogen's mind, Deborah swivels- snaps around with the grace of a dancer.. but those muscles are not driven by simple chemicals alone. She is facing the trio too quickly, a look of alarm painting painted features.

"Oh hey." David snickers. "You've got the wrong idea, Doctor.. the little woman-" He flaps a paw vaguely at Deborah, who seems nailed in place.

"-Just sent me over to invite you to the conv- hic- conversation. 'Scuze me- the conversation. Yeah she's planning the next-"

The rest is lost. Just a buzz to join with the greater buzz. Imogen feels something trying to coax her closer to him, and it makes the words far less important.

(target 10. He's too drunk to be subtle or effective.)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 7, 7 (Failure at target 10)

[Imogen Slaughter] The buzz is like a sound she cannot quite hear, like a vibration in the bone - she shakes her head slightly to dispel it, her brow contracting to the beginnings of a frown.

"No," she says it quietly, firmly, no longer quite sure what he'd been saying to her, but coming to a rapid conclusion that it did not matter.

"I don't think so."

She sets her wine glass down. She won't touch it again.

[Emil Vaako] Motion collected and executed perfectly. That is Deborah at the corner of Imogen's eye. the pale peach colored sweep of approach. Heels click waspishly against the carefully laquered tiles of the ballroom floor.

"Oh THERE you are, David.." The voice doesn't fit with the alarm in her face. Something to mollify the following eyes, something to fit with the sweep of her figure, voice warm- inviting. Deborah's gaze locks with Eddie for the second time, and the tall Detective snorts. An animal burst, trying to clear his senses.

He's motionless. 'Rapt' one might call it. If one didn't know better. The stubborn detective's right hand vibrates back and forth, as though trying to twitch out of ropes.

As Imogen puts her glass down one of David's hands tries to intercept hers. The motion is sloppy. Not quite together enough to imply the sophistication he tries to fein.

Sweat begins to bead on his forhead as Deborah approaches, and his face twists in surly competition. Jealousy at its most ugly.

(Deborah to Eddie: 'Stay PUT, tall dark and clueless.')
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5)

[Imogen Slaughter] David reaches out with a hand, and Imogen twitches hers away, adroitly avoiding the contact. She turns away slightly, glancing toward Deborah as she approaches, the frown briefly growing deeper before fading away entirely as Imogen Slaughter carefully places her mask on, feeling its comfortable shape fit more easily than honesty does.

Emil's twitching hand does not go unnoticed, nor does his expression.

She takes a moment - a second, to decide what to do. Take stock of the situation, as it were.

(wits+enigmas - something foul is afoot! HAIL KAHSEENO!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 9, 9, 9

[Emil Vaako] "..ah fu..." Its a grunt, from a familiar deep voice. Pearled among the attempted words are small, struggling sounds. Somewhere between the choke of a man who's been quite surprised by a beautiful woman, and the simple frustration found when one's feet just won't move.

"Ooooh hey hey- Daaaavid!" Deborah tries to chuckle off her husband's attempt at pawing the good doctor. "So sorry.. its the Cognac." The last comes with a tinkling laugh, as if from tarnished bells- and a gleaming smile Deborah tries to lean forward to deliver. Her intent is clearly to have a girl moment with Imogen, to soothe feelings and reassure the redheaded doctor- whom she clearly doesn't recognize. Deborah's never been to the Ball. David's face is a known one. One that's hovered over a report he'd come to Imogen's office to pick up. Carries that vaguely known quality. Deborah she's never seen before.

Slender fingers as pale as milk wrap around David's burly shoulders and begin to tug. Deborah's face floats just over his shoulder- and the touch seems to wick away David's consternation... and replace it with fear.

"Coooome oooon sweetie.. let's get to the bathroom and wash your face!" Another laugh.

[Imogen Slaughter] "No problem," Imogen says calmly, evenly, all the while, looking at Deborah's cheekbones rather than her eyes. "No problem at all."

She waits, watches while Deborah drags away David, ignoring the fear, ignoring the party going on around them. Someone calls her name, and she turns her head slightly to offer a polite, but barely there wave before turning her head to glance at Emil.

Rather than saying anything, she merely studies him, before arching an eyebrow, as if in silent question.

[Emil Vaako] Mobility suddenly returns. Eddie moves again once Deborah and David are well on their way to the bathroom. The dusky- skinned Serb doesn't blush exactly, but a slight rose tint rises against his skin. The flush belied by the faint hint of unease that tickles at the corners of the tall detective's hawkish face. His cheeks bulge as teeth grit together, and his swift, long fingered hands pluck and smooth at his suit. The impression that of a bird suddenly released from its cage to preen and settle itself on a branch.

Long fingers tuck against the knot of his tie, tugging slightly as pale eyes flicker hatefully toward Deborah and David. The smooth molasses voice rumbles fitfully.

"What am I, fucking twelve or something?" Its muttered. Not meant for other ears. A last glance toward the departing pair, then his attention sinks to Imogen with a far less decisive alarm hanging in the green pools. For a second the cop looks almost frightened. In that bare moment before the cool- as- a- cucumber, deceptively lazy mask drops in place again.

"So uh.. you met Niel now.." Words cast out to fill a silence.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Next time," she says, "don't look her in the eyes." A beat. "Or his, for that matter."

A pause. "Come outside wi' me a minute," she says, gesturing toward one of the balconies that rims the hall. Coincidentally - or not so much so, it is one where she can see the hallway to the bathroom.

Imogen weaves through the crowd, unattached to the detective as she heads toward the outdoors.

The night is cool and sharp as she steps outside - this particular balcony, empty. They can hear drifts of conversation from a nearby balcony, a few of the older officers enjoying a cigar out in the night, swapping war stories. Imogen turns facing the glass doors and fixing her gaze on the bathroom. She unsnaps her purse, taking out a cigarette and lighting up before offering a fag to the detective.

She inhales smoke, then exhales it slowly, emptying her lungs of poison as she turns her head.

"When yer friend Niel was speaking to me," she says, without preamble, "I could feel my bones vibrate, so loud I couldn't hear myself think. It was like my thoughts were tryin' to go another direction; the direction he wanted them to go in."

A pause.

"Gi'en the way yeh looked at his wife," this mildly wry, her smirk half hidden as she lifts her cigarette to her mouth, "I imagine she is much the same." A lift of an eyebrow. "Am I right?"

If he confirms it, she says: "I don't think yer fellow officer is human anymore."