Hal's Diner.

[Sorrow] Hal's Red Eye diner is an authentic 1950s diner on the corner of Camden and 75th Street. Stainless steel panels gleam in the warm evening air, flush with the orange-amber light shed by the streetlamps. Neon buzzes and glows atop the old building - which is long and narrow, sandwiched up between much older brick storefronts, built along the long, sleek lines of a railcar. "Voted Best Red Eye Gray in the northern Midwest!" announces one of the placards set forward against the glass.

That seems a rather specific sort of award.

"OPEN. 24 HRS." declares another sign, this one in neon, the cursive neon tubes gleaming in the darkness.

It is cooler tonight that it has been for several nights, the blast of air conditioning when one enter the diner is a welcome relief, still, from the humid air, the clouds of insects swarming so soon after dusk. "I dare you to try the gravy," Kora says, quiet to the shorter Roman as she pushes open the front door. She holds the door open for him through any protestations. "Told you they had good air conditioning here."

[Roman Turner] He was greatly relieved when they entered the air conditioning. His shirt was a thin as he could find, yet it felt like it held the heat of his body in far too much. Add the jeans and hat and he was cooking.

"I'll try it. I ain't scared of gravy. My ma says I'd eat anything as long as it has gravy on it."

He felt a little odd with Kora holding the door for him; still he removed his hat on entering. One hand smoothed sweat slick chestnut colored hair down in an attempt to not look like he had hat hair.

[Roman Turner] (( LOL! Sorry, forgot to hit send LOL! ))

[Slaughter] Imogen is there, leaning against the counter that dominates the diner, her fingers lightly tapping the cheap plastic linoleum in an expression of impatience.

Eventually, from the kitchen, a portly man exits. His head is completely bald, perhaps even shaved, shiny beneath the harsh diner lights. He casts a glance toward the doorway, Sorrow and Fate entering, his eyes narrowing. The man is dressed in white, an apron tied about his straining belly. Grease stains mark his front and his eyes are small, beady, his features squashed together, unpleasantly set off by weasel's teeth.

Imogen too, glances over her shoulder to follow his gaze. The Garou are glanced at, but not yet acknowledged as she turns back.

Words are exchanged quietly, punctuated by Imogen's tapping finger. She keeps rhythm. Perfect 4/4 time, for all the fact that the pattern deviates. Quarter notes, eighth notes, sixteenth.

Eventually, she lifts her hand, uncurling her fingers to press her palm downward against the envelope on the countertop. She pushes it forward toward him. She receives a paper-bag in exchange, its top crumpled to make a handle, the contents heavy, distinctly shaped.

By now, Kora and Roman have made themselves comfortable - seated themselves, or at least begun to. She turns away from the counter and scans the half empty dining area to find them.

[Sorrow] There's a row of booths against the window, and a line of spinning flat stools hard against the worn out counter. Kora chooses one of the booths and slides back into it, pushing herself back until her shoulder blades are flat against the glass and the mass of her twisted hair is compressed between the windows and the nape of her neck. She's wearing a t-shirt tonight, black with white letters, and old worn jeans that Roman and perhaps even Imogen would recognize as the clothing dedicated to her spirit, the things that change with her every time she fights.

They are clean tonight, the fresh scent of some organic, phosphate free laundry detergent. Even her hair is clean, the scent of the shampoo lingering in the fine threads.

Her first instinct is to prop her long legs up on the seat and let Roman take the other side of the booth. Then she sees Imogen looking around for them, and curls her right leg under her body, dropping the left leg to the floor. "Have a seat, kid," she says to Roman, pushing a menu across the table in his direction.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she looks up and snatches his stetson from the table top, dropping it over her own pale head. " - and why am I not surprised about the gravy? Me, I'm afraid of gravy. All gravy. White, brown, clarified - all of it."

[Sorrow] Then, with a faint hum in the back of her throat - " - hey, did you know some people call tomato sauce gravy?"

[Erika Irina Alexander] The young professional leaves behind the dingy cab with pleasure. Ever of her lineage, Erika utilizes the small alcohol-based gel in her bag and replaces the lost moisture with a similar dose of hand lotion. The kinfolk still looks out of place, but now at least comfortable.

Her attire is far more accurately judged. A snug, crisp, white tee tucked into denim pedal pushers. She checks her black divers watch and looks around the street. She spots a very welcoming diner and chooses it as her designated place to kill time before her next check-up with another client.

The frigid air greets her, and Erika seems quite relieved. She doesn't immediately notice Kora and Roman, but her eyes light up with recognition soon enough. Erika turns her head and postures herself nearby to gauge whether or not she was welcome to stop by.

[Roman Turner] He slid in next to Kora after following her gaze across the room. And there SHE stood. It was the Goddess. For a moment his breath caught and he forgot to blink. It wasn't till it sunk in that Kora was talking about gravy and tomato sauce that he blinked and looked at her.

"Well, no I didn't. That's just plain ole weird. Though I know an old fella likes to eat tomatoes cut up with nothing but sugar on them. Mashes them in a bowl, adds sugar and eats them with a spoon like soup."

When the door opened again he naturally glanced that way and saw Erika entering.

"Hey, ain't we seen her before?"

[Slaughter] "Don't try the gravy here," Imogen suggests as she closes the distance to their table, her eyebrow arching slightly. "S'likely come from dog flesh."

[Sorrow] "In Jersey," Kora confirms. " - like, they call tomato sauce Sunday gravy, or something like that." The rest of the explanation is swallowed back at Imoen approaches and cautions them against the Red Eye gravy and the potential dog flesh inside. Whatever else she was going to say dies in her throat. The Fenrir makes a faint, sour expression with her generous mouth. "Have any idea what is safe, doc? If so," the sour look melds into a familiar curl of her mouth. " - care to join us?"

Then, lifting her chin toward Erika, Kora gives the kin a sort of up-nod, inviting her back to joint their table. To Roman, lower then. "Yeah, that chick who was lost near the church last week. Some sort of counselor, right?" To Imogen, a tip of her head toward Erika, and a quiet explanation shared whether or not Erika takes Kora up on her invitation. "Kin."

[Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists. "The coffee's not toxic," she says. "I'll gi' it that much."

Though her offering is meagre, she pulls back a chair and takes her seat, casting a brief glance over her shoulder in Erika's direction.

The kinwoman is slight, small. Her hair vibrant, brilliant, her skin pale. Her hair is back, held in place by a covered elastic band, tendrils uncoiling from a half tamed bun. Though she is dressed simply in jeans and a black-t-shirt beneath a loose fitting cloth jacket, she is too fine for this restaurant, even at a glance.

The paper bag she's acquired, she lays in her lap. "And I imagine the toast is hard to get wrong."

[Roman Turner] "Something must be good enough to order it in takeout."

He lifted his brows with a look towards the paper bag Imogen sat in her lap. The he stood up to make room and allow the other Kin (Erika) a choice of seats.

[Erika Irina Alexander] The others debate over the nefarious contents of the food. Erika watches them, then makes her way over and waits for the lovely redhead to decide whether or not she's going to have a seat. She gives a brief explanation of her presence. "Checking in on other clients," the kinfolk gives an amiable smile.

Her eyes go towards Kora, "Since I'm here, I should let you know that Victor saw me to the Brotherhood. He was a perfect gentleman." There is no subtext here, although one could certainly read more into it than necessary. "Also, I met Katherine yesterday. Am I interrupting?"

[Sorrow] "They can't screw up Coke, either. I mean, I think that's mandated, by the people who own it. How it gets served." Kora has the menu open on the table in front of her, and does not seem particularly disturbed by Imogen's assessment of the contents of the gravy or the quality of the other menu items. Erika joins them, and Kora looks up, glancing from Imogen to Erika. Her dark eyes linger on the blonde as she offers a friendly mile, and an explanation of her presence.

"Cool," Kora says, with a faint sort of hook-curve smile to the news that Victor saw Erika safely to the brotherhood, that Erika has now met with Kate. "All settled in then, yeah?"

Then, the creature's pale head swings back to Imogen. "Doc, this is Erika. Erika Alexander. Erika, this is Dr. Imogen Slaughter. Erika's a counselor for the VA or something - right? Doc's a medical examiner for the county." The faint smile deepens at the corner of Kora's mouth.

"I think I'm having a Chicago dog with everything, and double fries. And a coke." This to everyone at the table. The waitress hasn't approached, yet. She's cleaning out the ice cream cooler, scrubbing a week's worth of spilled, melted ice cream from the tracks of the sliding glass lid, doing anything and everything she can to avoid the against the window.

[Roman Turner] "I want a chocolate sundae with sprinkles and a Coke."

He was still standing there waiting for Erika to pick a seat so he could take a load off himself.

"Ma'am?"

He indicated the booth with a raised brow.

[Slaughter] Imogen and Erika are interested. The dark eyed woman studies the pale blonde, briefly, before offering: "A pleasure," she says absently. She is clearly not American, British, perhaps, or at least one of the colonies. Her accent is forever confusing Americans.

Her gaze flicks between Roman hovering and Erika perhaps on her way to sitting, perhaps still standing, an eyebrow arching.

"Think I'll just ha' a coffee," she says, mildly, smirking. "Black." No milk, no sugar. No chances.

[Erika Irina Alexander] Upon the mention of work, Erika perks up a bit more, even though she seems more lively tonight. The kinfolk offers a hand. Her handshake, if Imogen returns it is firm and professional. "Therapist, actually. Masters of Psychology at Columbia."

Roman speaks to her. She takes a seat and smiles at the teen, still a boy really. Erika continues on about her work. "Actually, I help patients assess their own trauma and adjust to home life."

[Roman Turner] "At night?"

He reclaimed his seat next to Kora. He could take the rage that close.

"You see your clients at night for adjustments to life?"

His smile was polite, as innocent as a babe in church.

"You must be committed."

[Slaughter] Imogen does take her hand - after a moment. Her fingers are cool, her grip firm. It is here that she says her words: "A pleasure" in her pleasing voice, her musical accent. There is nothing to be said about her tone, however. If anything, the politeness is automatic. Flat.

"Do you?" says the doctor in reply to the extrapolation. "How interesting."

Roman's commentary draws a cool regard from the kinwoman, her eyebrow arching at the smile.

[Sorrow] "Sprinkles? - " Kora replies to Roman, almost muttering the word under her voice. There's a sort of silence afterward that inhabits the space a word was meant to inhabit. Swinging a doubtful glance from Roman to the counter and back again. "You're going to order sprinkles on your sundae?" Their reflections gleam in the dark glass fronting the store, shadows and outlines. Erika sits, and Roman is then freed to do so himself. Kora has remained seated throughout the exchange, and her dark eyes flick from Roman to Imogen, to Erika, then somewhere beyond the kinswoman's shoulder.

At whom is clear enough moments later, as the waitress finally approaches their table. Kora orders her meal, Roman's dessert, Imogen's black coffee and then looks to Erika, waiting for an order before giving the waitress a generous sort of smile that does nothing to ward off the faint sense of ill-ease that writes itself across her heart, so close to a Garou. "Not feeling adventurous tonight, Doc?" Kora says at last as the waitress wanders away, orders in hand. Then, to Erika, " - what's the difference? I mean, between a counselor and therapist?"

Her interest is polite, only. Talking about one's problems isn't exactly the Fenrir way.

[Roman Turner] For a moment a little color rose in his face with the look from Imogen but the he seemed to take her look as something entirely out of context. He outright stared at her as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds on a stormy day. Only absently answering Kora.

"Yeah extra sprinkles."

The waitress came and he spared her an innocent look.

"I'd like sprinkles on that sundae if ya have them, Ma'am."

Then Kora asked something of Erika that had puzzled him too and he had to find focus in giving Imogen dreamy eyed looks again to keep his mouth shut.

[Erika Irina Alexander] The kinfolk listens quietly for a while. She most definitely decides against eating. Expecting even the coffee to taste of turpentine, she refuses even that. "Nothing for me," she addresses the waitress. Busily, the waitress moves around to turn in the ticket.

Sure, Erika felt uneasy around them, but perhaps her good mood allowed her to adjust momentarily to what would usually freak her out. She watches Kora and the young cowboy for a while, then wisely turns her gaze away with a slight smile.

"I'd like to think I'm more qualified. Legally, counselors aren't required to have any official qualifications."

[Roman Turner] Once again he sent a polite look Erika's way before returning his attention to Imogen. All manner of things were dancing through his head.

"I'd like to think a lot of things, only it just gets me in trouble."

[Slaughter] The doctor smirks faintly as Kora ribs her choice of order. "I've seen the kitchen. I'll stick wi' coffee, thanks."

Imogen flicks a glance to Roman to find him looking at her dreamily, the way only a crush-struck teenager can. Her mouth draws briefly tighter before she says, simply, dryly, "It stops you, I hope.

"S'a bit like bein' called a coroner, I think." This on Erika's explanation. "Vitally important t'the people who live the differences and rather - unimportant to everyone else."

[Sorrow] Seated against the window, Kora gives Roman a sidelong look as he offers the comment. The menus here are laminated handwritten relics, with tape over the old prices, the new prices written in in sharpie. Finished ordering, she gives it a cursory glace before collecting the other menus from Roman and Erika, and sliding hem back neatly between the napkin dispenser and salt and pepper shakers. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Kora tips off the cowboy hat from the crown of her own head and offers it back to Roman, her palm on the crown, the brim up as if she were taking an offering, looking for money.

Kora is quiet a moment, glancing betwen the two kinswomen as the waitress returns with their drinks - coffee and two cokes, still fizzing furious and full of ice - and a chocolate sundae matched with a whole extra bowl of sprinkles for Roman. There is a low whistle from the Fenrir as the waitress sets down the bowl of sprinkles. Only when the woman retreats behind the counter does Kora glance back at Erika. "So, the master's degree is the different, yeah?" and then, Imogen. " - does this mean, doc," the hint of a wry half-smile, " - that you are not the coroner?"

[Roman Turner] "No ma'am."

He answered Imogen giving her a wide smile when she looked directly at him like that, even if it did make the color rise in his face. His had was offered back and he accepted it to lay in his lap with a nod of thanks. The sundae arrived and extra sprinkles and he gave the waitress the biggest ole smile anyone had likely seen from him.

"Thank ya ma'am, mighty kind of ya. This looks better than I've seen in Chicago since I got here."

He didn't waste time digging in, now and then adding extra sprinkles. The A/C was helping a bit with his discomfort even though ever so often he checked to make sure his shirt was still buttoned up to the top button and his sleeves were down as far as they could go.

[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika also notices Roman's interest in Imogen. She seems amused, and says nothing to Kora's comment. She merely nods and examines her manicure.

[Slaughter] "No," the kinwoman's voice maintains a certain edge as she replies to Kora, smirking. "I am not th'coroner. But I'll spare yeh the lecture, shall I?"

The kinwoman sits straight in her chair, a paperbag in her lap. A flick of her gaze to Erika, examining her manicure.

"Bored you, have we?"

[Roman Turner] He choked and choked some more and pretty soon his shoulders started trembling. Likely Kora felt the tremble coming before anything showed outwardly other than the choking.

[Erika Irina Alexander] The redhead caught her attention. Erika shakes her head. "No, I'm just wondering where Kate got hers done. I'll have to ask her."
Erika looks towards Roman with an arched brow. She seems concerned or confused. Clearly, there is something she's not been made privy to. Ah well, the topic is not addressed.

[Roman Turner] The choking started again accompanied by swiping at his eyes. His face was flushed alright because he was righting for control that was slipping.

[Slaughter] "Clap him on the back or something," this to Kora.

"Before he vomits or something."

[Slaughter] (remove the last "or something"! Jeesh)

[Sorrow] "Thanks doc," back to Imogen, in a low sardonic voice. For sparing her the lecture. Roman is slowly losing it beside, like a bank saturated with rain crumbling onto the road below. When Erika discusses her manicure, she receives a direct, dark-eyed glance from the Skald. "I'm surprised. A manicure wouldn't last a night on me."

Maybe Silver Fangs had a different - less martial - approach to war.

Then Imogen suggests that Kora clap Roman on the back. Kora glances between the sundae and the bowl full and sprinkles and the slowly-choking Ragabash, and claps him on the back.

[Sorrow] Dex + Brawl! Dif 6

[Sorrow] Bashing damage - clapping Roman on the back!

[Slaughter] (....)

[Roman Turner] A clap on the back was just what he needed. He was still swiping at his eyes, trying to get himself under control when he turned his head to Erika and rasped out.

"My apologies Ma'am. It's just not everyday I see a Kin completely ignore a question from a True in favor of studying her nails and all."

[Erika Irina Alexander] Seems completely confused and alarmed. Something about her tenses up, looking from one to the other. "I'm sorry," she is quick to say. "I.... missed it. I didn't mean..." Erika becomes rather spooked. The blonde kin rubs at her right cheek, keeping her hand there.

[Roman Turner] "Well ma'am, it might be because ya got so intent on your fingernails there that ya became mesmerized? Miss Kora asked ya if the Master's degree was the difference because ya seemed to look down upon counselors with your comment there."

[Erika Irina Alexander] Shaking, the thirty-year-old seems more than a little uneasy. The kinfolk tries to regain her composure a bit, placing her hand on the table. She breathes slowly, deliberately, and keeps her eyes down.

"I didn't think she needed my confirmation. I meant no disrespect."

[Slaughter] Imogen's watching Erika now, her gaze intent, her eyes narrowed. There is a certain directness to the way she looks at the other woman. A sharp edged perception. There is no empathy.

Still:

"That's enough, Roman."

Imogen is kinfolk. She speaks in ways most would never dare. Not even with one so young.

[Sorrow] So: Roman is saved from choking. Kora hits him squarely between the shoulder blades with the heel of her palm, hardly enough that the impact has a sort of resonance in the young Garou's chest, hard enough to sting, but not really hard enough to do anything more than inconvenience the kid. Erika gets a spooked look on her face, and reaches up to touch her old scars. Kora glances from the kinswoman to Roman, then back again.

There's a faint curl of a frown on her mouth then; call it - thoughtful. The look isn't for Erika, but for Imogen, "Hey doc, I'm not sure I told you yet, but if you find any stray Fenrir, kin or Garou, I'd appreciate it if you sent them to me, yeah?"

Back to Erika, then, as the kinswoman struggles to regain her composure. "None taken," Kora says, quietly.

[Roman Turner] He shook his head and pushed out of the booth.

"I don't mean to scare ya or make ya start babbling. Ya should just be aware of your environment and what's going on around ya. Becoming lost in envy over another's nail paint leaves ya vulnerable."

He nodded to the group.

"Sorry to disrupt supper. There's still some ice cream there and sprinkles, help yourself."

He fished out his wallet then headed for the counter with his hat tucked under one arm so he had both hands free to pull out a bill he placed on the counter calling to the waitress.

"Mighty fine ice cream sundae, Ma'am. Thank ya kindly."

[Roman Turner] He nodded towards the group at the table as he headed for the door. Kora would see him later on patrols. For now he opened the door the heat and stepped out where he could be seen settling the hat on his head before heading off up the street into the dark.

((Thanks for the play!))

[Slaughter] "Goodnight, Roman." Mildly answered as Imogen picks up her coffee and drains it to its cooling dregs. A flick of her gaze toward Kora as she starts to get up. By now, Roman's out the door. "I'll send Fenrir to you," she says.

"And I ha' somethin' to show you, if you ha' the time." Her eyes move to Erika, "You mentioned you ha' clients to see," she notes, mildly. "I'd hate to keep you from them. Enjoy the reminder o' yer evening."

[Erika Irina Alexander] Remains quiet, hoping desperately for her drink of choice or something to keep her from having a panic attack on the spot. She fumbles for her wallet, takes out thirty, and leaves it on the table. "Keep your money. I'll take care of it."
Erika wasn't looking for empathy, not at all. She keeps her eyes down, thinking of things she buried in her past long ago. Maybe there's a reason she's gone all this time alone and filled her schedule with work.

[Erika Irina Alexander] ((Woah, delayed. Grr Stupid Jove))

[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika gladly takes the invitation to leave. She takes a breath and forces a smile, checking her watch. "Yes, well just the last for today." She takes out two business cards and gives one to Kora, one to Imogen.
"In case either of you need to contact me." One quick gaze to Kora before quietly managing, "Elder, again I'm sorry."

[Sorrow] "Sure thing, doc," Kora replies, her voice low and rich as always. She's managed to consume half her Coke, and requests the meal she ordered to go. A pair of Chicago-style hot dogs and huge serving of fries and accordingly wrapped in butcher paper and quickly stuffed into a white paper back, the sharp call-response between the waitress and the short-order cook has a certain patois rhythm to it, patterned and engaging and essentially unrecognizeable.

"Erika," the tall Fenrir offers as she unfolds herself from the booth, accepting the business card with a flick of her fingers. After a moment's thought, she scrawls a number on a napkin, offering it back to Erika to tuck into a pocket.. "My number, if you need it. I told you, I didn't take any offence. Be safe, yeah?"

Kora waits long enough for the waitress to bring her her take-out bag, sliding Erika's card into her right hip pocket, then starts toward the door,, her reflection narrow, lean and tall and pale, walking through the windows like soe movie that is constantly resetting itself.

[Erika Irina Alexander] Erika takes the napkin and leaves, pushing onwards for safety on the streets of Chicago, ironic as that sounds. "Goodnight," she says to the both of them.