[Dr. Slaughter] The building is glass and concrete, steps leading up to the front doors, a sign out front without adornment, declaring "Office of the Cook County Medical Examiner". Other than the sign, there is little to separate it from other buildings in the area. It is a mixed district of government, medical and legal. The OCCME is the perfect example of all three.
There is a ramp to the right, for wheel chair access, and the doors have the appropriate buttons to press. Through the glass, there is a lobby, beyond that, a secretary, hidden by more glass which might be bulletproof.
Imogen stands outside, her jacket on but open, flapping in the tunnelled wind that courses down the street. It is leather, expensive. Her hair is pulled back, braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, held in place by pins and skill. Still, strands have come loose, and they catch in her eyelashes as the wind blows them.
It is chilly, and she is smoking a cigarette, standing near an ash receptacle, thoughtfully placed by a building column, to keep smokers out of the wind. Unfortunately, the wind goes in the opposite direction today.
[Hunter] The wind howls like a hammer.
Hunter has his long coat on, that military styled brown one and it's pulled tightly around his body. The collars are up and he tucks his chin down into them while he walks. A scarf snaps wild and wilful in the windy street, joined by the flapping of the bottom of his coat as only the middle of it is buttoned. His hair, as untamed as usual, clumps together and sticks up and out in rough chocolate brown tangles, like even in homid his shackles are raised.
She can see him approach from far down the street; she can make out his lazy far-too-easy predator like stride and the way his head doesn't turn, doesn't shift to watch his surroundings. His hands are in his pockets, though as he gets closer he fumbles around with a button of his jacket and the garment pops open, spreading wide while he reaches for a packet of camels and a decidedly worn Zippo. The cigarette gets placed in his mouth, lit, the pack gets returned to his jacket along with the lighter. He does all of this while he's walking up the stairs and by the time he is standing in front of her his hands are back in his pockets and the cigarette is being puffed on from the corner of his mouth.
"Imogen." He says, as has become usual for their greetings.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's cigarettes are expensive. He can tell by the smell, by the colour of the filter, the quality of the paper. He sees nothing else to mark them, but really, even without these details, one could probably guess: Imogen smokes expensive cigarettes.
She turns her head to exhale, as he approaches, blowing the smoke away from him, into the wind to be scattered to atoms, then turns back, her head tilting slightly, deliberately to shake her hair from her eyes.
"Hunter," she greets him, her dark eyes flicking toward the lobby, and her place of work, before starting to descend the steps, purposefully drawing them both out of sight from any potential colleagues or clients. "What can I do for you?"
[Milo] There isn't much call for Milo Sweeney to be in the medical district. He doesn't really get sick, and he doesn't know anyone that would be at the University of Illinois College of Medicine. And he certainly doesn't need a medical examiner, whatever that is.
The reason he's here at all is because he's a curious creature by nature. He wanted to see the United Center, where the Chicago Bulls play. He wandered around the empty halls, looking at posters and the retired numbers of former players. On his way to the nearby bus station, another building caught his attention. And another. Then he wanted to see what 290 looked like from the Damon Ave bridge. And on, and on, and on. It's not a bad way to learn the city, this wandering, but in the few weeks Milo's been in the city, he's lost count of how many times he's gotten himself lost.
It doesn't stop him. His sneakered feet carry him onward, crunching through snow and sliding over where it's been compacted into something slippery and dangerous. He's dressed as he always is, jeans, wool coat over a dark hoodie, brown hair curling up from beneath a knit hat a unicorn probably threw up. Fitting, given his tribe. He hunches his shoulders against the wind, which brings it with the smell of cigarette smoke and, as he nears the medical examiners building, breeding. Looking up, he sees the unfamiliar, professional looking redhead, and Hunter.
What in Gaia's name is Hunter Matthews doing with a professional looking woman? His curiosity gets the better of him. It usually does. His steps slow briefly, then pick up again, carrying him closer.
[Hunter] Hunter does not smoke expensive cigarettes. In fact, the first time she met him he didn't smell at all like tobacco at all. Regardless, he puffs away on his Camel no filter, raising a hand to pry it from his mouth as they begin to back-track down the stairs.
Imogen looks away from him to release her smoke whilst Hunter just lets it drift out his nose and mouth at random, letting it linger on his lips before it is lost to the weather.
It takes him a moment to respond, a tense moment for him as is seen by his tongue touching to his canine and a long smokeless breath. He looks tired.
"One'a ya' tribes gone. Friend'a mine. Howard Ivers. Just thought I'd let the kin know'n'all, case nobody gets to tellin' em. Died on my hunt." He says the words as if to clear up any confusion about whose fault this is.
[Rain] The wind howls. It's the one thing they can all agree on, touched as they are by its irreverent fingertips that bend to tangle, torment, push through loose buttonholes, tickle ribs, pinks cheeks and noses and ears. Rain's hair had been down when she stepped out of her afternoon engagement but somewhere along the way she'd had to stop, set down all of her burdens and twist those long tresses between her hands to steady them. She'd had to tuck that rope of hair under her scarf and the collar of her jacket. Even now, the wind teases locks free, about her temples, from the crown of her head. They dance and fly on at the whim of her tormentor. Possessed.
There was a wrong turn, somewhere back and down along unfamiliar streets, that brought her to the medical, industrial, govermental section. She's missed the bus station she was looking for, and further misplaced the El, but Rain doesn't panic. She keeps walking, looking for broad streets that show promise for connecting with some sort of mass transit. She watches the routes the passing buses take. But these tall, efficient buildings will either yield a commuter stop (feast) or broad swaths of parking lots (famine). Before they can offer up either, she notes a familiarly bright-crowned woman and a passingly familiar spectre of Rage.
Rain stops for a moment. Lets the guitar case thumping against her side come to a rest. Then she looks left, right, and left again before jaywalking over toward the pair of familiar faces. It isn't until she's closer that she remembers how Hunter's presence affects her. But by then she'd opted in, and it would be rude to just walk the other way. As it is, she approaches the duo from the side opposite Hunter.
"Afternoon, Dr. Slaughter," she says, all politeness and Southern honeyed-charm. There's a nod, and a warm-wary smile for Hunter, too. (Rain has yet to notice the approaching Ragabash. Perhaps because it's their job to approach unnoticed, or perhaps because Hunter commands the wealth of her wary attention just now.)
[Dr. Slaughter] There is a sharp look, when he speaks, one that fades as he continues. This is not the first time Imogen has had this conversation, but rarely has she had it with such a "good" outcome. Not someone she knows at all, just someone she is being informed of because of some implied tie of blood by someone who has no reason to know any better.
"I'm sorry fer yer loss," she says, and though the phrase is not infused with compassion, there is a certain solemnity. She lifts her cigarette back to her lips for a quick drag.
The kinswoman suit is black, what can be seen of it. Black slacks, shown in varying degrees as her coat tails move with the wind. Hunter is near enough to see the edges of a suit jacket beneath the trench coat. A dark blue blouse beneath that, the wind cutting through it, though she welcomes the cold.
Behind Hunter, Milo approaches and Imogen's gaze shifts slightly over his left shoulder. Her gaze narrows, and she pauses before turning her head to exhale, her hand dropping to tap ash from her cigarette.
Rain approaches, now, and greets Imogen with a sort of Southern charm. Imogen glances at her, a moment, her mouth twisting, briefly, her gaze flicking upward. "There a bat signal up there I don't know about?"
[Hunter] I'm sorry fer yer loss she says and there's something of an understanding there regardless of any intended sympathy or warmth. She knows, and in this moment he knows she knows. That's good enough for now. Attention to this fact is diverted however when Imogen's eyes travel over his shoulder to something behind him.
He spins, though it isn't overly quick and it is threaded with that weary web of easy movement that permeates through all his actions. His eyes find Milo, and there is a look of surprise there, an unvoiced question before Rain chimes out of nowhere with an Afternoon Dr. Slaughter. The lack of breeding, the lack of smell, they have taken the Ahroun by surprise and he does not at all look happy about it.
His upper lip curls involuntarily when Rain gives him that wary smile, he looks angry today though it is but a shadow of the wrath he showed on the last night of the full moon. He covers it up with a hand and his cigarette, puffing vigorously before flicking the ash absently.
"Must be." He says rather dryly.
[Rain] "No, ma'a," she answers Imogen, regarding the bat signal. It's somber, plain. "I just got myself turn about, is all."
She follows the other kinswoman's gaze, over Hunter's shoulder, to Milo and her smile shifts noticeably. It's something softer, a little warmer. As if the Ragabash is a welcome sight on an otherwise trying day. That he offers some reprieve. Oh, and for the especially observant, that there is some evident fondness there.
Hunter snarls and Rain, before she can think twice about what it might mean, looks down and away. Takes a step back. She immediately gives ground and backs off. There is a glint of gold at her throat, a small heart-shaped charm that announces her Tribe. It's buried, just now, in the wrap of her scarf. She is tense, rooted to her new spot like a statue. As if standing very still might loose the frustration that Hunter felt at seeing her. On a normal day, he Rage brims over what she can handle comfortably. On a day of Loss and Anger, it's all but intolerable to her.
[Rain] [Edit: I just got myself *turned about, is all." ]
[Milo] "Howard's dead?"
The voice that comes from behind Hunter is quiet, yet strong enough not to be torn away by the wind. It does not sound surprised, just like it's wanting confirmation. Maybe Milo's ears aren't what they're supposed to be.
The Fianna kinswoman peers around the much bigger Garou to look at Milo, and Milo looks back, his pale blue eyes wide and clear. The fact that she's noticed him when his own kinswoman hasn't doesn't seem to surprise him, either, though his pale blue eyes peer at the world with a seeming wide-eyed innocence. He just looks at Imogen, brows lifting slightly as if to ask It's the hat, isn't it?
Hunter turns on him, looks at him like Milo did it on purpose, crept up behind him like some sneaky ninja, ready to pop out and do...who knows. Something nefarious probably, or some sort of prank. Milo doesn't do either, he's just quiet.
"I'm sorry." Which could be for Howard, or for Hunter, or for waltzing up on what might have been a private conversation. He's very much aware of Rain, and Rain's reaction to Hunter. A flicker of concern crosses his face, and he steps nearer to her, not right against her. Just closer, where it'll be easier to throw himself between the wary kinswoman and Hunter if, for some reason, he needs to.
Looking at Imogen, he says, "I'm Milo."
[Rain] Howard's dead, Milo echoes, and Rain's features express the most open regret and sadness of all of them. She doesn't Rage at the loss, but she feels it. Perhaps more keenly than any of the assembled would have expected.
"I heard," she says, low and heavy. The Gaian girl does not raise her eyes to look at Hunter's features, to bring them anywhere near his. She will not risk accidentally meeting his eyes, now, for even a show of sympathy or compassion. "Quinn told me," she explains, in case Hunter needs a reason.
Rain sets her guitar case down on the ground before her, on end so that its narrow end comes up to rest against her side and she can wrap an arm around it loosely to steady it. It gives her one more thin layer of distance between her frame and Hunter's, and every last inch of breathing room helps. She glances over to Milo, when he comes nearer. To his feet, first, and then up so that her glance lands somewhere along his cheek bone. Her mouth spreads into a thin smile, but her eyes are warmer than that. For him. But the tension doesn't abate, and her wariness of Hunter is the most forward thing in her countenance.
[Hunter] "Ye." A simple word, a solemn word. It is an agreement and an answer all in one and if he needs a reason from Rain then it sure doesn't look like it. When he watches her talk it's with the same burning stare he has when he's looking at the building or the sky. He reaches up the hand holding the cigarette and rubs distractedly at his forehead just below his hair line. He doesn't look very comfortable at all.
A breath, an attempt at relaxation before his attention is placed on Imogen.
"I wanted ta' talk ta' ya bout' this ritual we come across on the last night o'the full moon. Find out if ya' seen any signs of that sorta' thing happenin' closer to home."
Eager anticipation, a rage bound drive beneath the surface.
[Dr. Slaughter] There was no visible response to Imogen's glance at Milo, and Milo's subsequent eyebrow raising. His unasked question was perhaps, unheard.
She takes another drag from her cigarette, filling her lungs with poison and smoke, exhaling it into the wind for it to scatter away.
When her gaze moves again, it is not back to the Garou or kinfolk, but instead toward the building, her gaze thoughtful. It returns sharply as Hunter speaks to her.
There is a particular tension to her body, but the way she meets Hunter's eyes and carries herself suggests that the rage is not the cause. Her eyebrow arches slightly. "Alright."
[Dr. Slaughter] (Err, DLP! Imogen would not exactly entirely ignore Milo when he introduces himself. *retries*)
[Dr. Slaughter] There was no visible response to Imogen's glance at Milo, and Milo's subsequent eyebrow raising. His unasked question was perhaps, unheard.
She takes another drag from her cigarette, filling her lungs with poison and smoke, exhaling it into the wind for it to scatter away. Milo introduces himself, and the kinfolk's mouth thins, a pause as she ashes the fag once more. "Dr. Slaughter," she offers, lifting her cigarette back to her lips. "A pleasure."
Hunter speaks next and the doctor's gaze moves, her eyebrow arching. "Alright."
[Milo] There's a slight nod to Dr. Slaughter's introduction, nothing more. No mention of tribe or Auspice, no other words at all for the moment. His attention is distracted in Rain's direction, at the way she holds her guitar case, the tension in her frame when she looks in Hunter's direction. He offers her a small smile, but he knows to be careful with her when she's on her guard. That, and the others' presence, keeps him from edging closer.
There's confirmation. Yes, Howard's dead. "Oh." That's all. Just one syllable, without much expression. His eyes lower, and it seems that's all he's going to say, that he's lapsed into a comfortable silence, when Hunter asks about a ritual.
"What kind of ritual? Where was it?" Holy crap, two questions, all at the same time.
[Hunter] The look he gives Milo is almost one of annoyance, like he's interrupting, like he's talking when he shouldn't, like he's giving a fuck when it isn't his turn to give a fuck. But it also could just be the situation, the topic, his Rage.. any number of things.
When he speaks it is to both Imogen and Milo, even to Rain to some extent though when his eyes drift that way it seems more out of courtesy or some innate social programming rather than out of any real interest in her reaction to his words.
"Tekakwitha. Undead Garou. Corpses brought back ta'... some sorta' state'a life.. able ta' shift'n'everythin." His eyes focus on Imogen. "Bodies long dead, rottin', markings'n'carvings in the ground, bodies not buried just lyin' there. You seen n'e'thin' like that in the city?"
[Dr. Slaughter] When Milo spoke, asking the questions, Imogen's gaze flicked to him as well, even, dark eyed and wordless. She turns back to Hunter as he begins to explain.
"Only full bloods, was it?" When her gaze moves again, it is to shift to look toward her building, a wary regard before she returns her attention to the Bone Gnawer.
"What were th'carvings like?"
[Dr. Slaughter] A beat, before she adds, "I've not seen anythin' as such. Keep my eye out though, shall I?"
[Rain] Milo doesn't come closer, because she's rigid with her awareness of the assembled Rage. Milo doesn't, so Rain breathes out and tries to still the watchfulness that's scored into her very bones. It's the kinswoman who shifts, putting herself closer to him. Close enough to reach out and touch without much fanfare, without any obvious exertion. There's a little drag of her guitar case, as she consolidates the Tribe's position here and encourages her voice to follow.
That Hunter shows them almost equal parts disdain and frustration seems to encourage her toward something like solidarity.
Rain does lift her gaze away from the steps and concrete now, but her attention settles on Imogen's replies. On the clean, crisp, perfunctory way the other woman deals with the True. Rain forces her shoulders back a little, so she won't seem so hunched over and afraid. Her jaw is still tight, her eyes are still sharp, but there's a little shift. Bolstered by Milo's presence and Dr. Slaughter's absolute lack of apparent fear, she steadies herself to listen to the conversation.
Like... zombies? she wants to ask, but bites her tongue instead.
[Milo] He's seen that look before, the one that says Shut up, nerd, before I dunk your head in the toilet. He looks steadily back, from Ahroun to kinswoman as each speaks, hands in the pockets of his coat, just listening. He has nowhere else to be, and no one's actively telling him to get lost. Besides, it's interesting stuff, these rituals, and he's a scout. A sneak. He needs to keep an eye out of this sort of thing just as much as the kinfolk does.
Rain inches closer. Milo glances at her from the corner of his eye. When she's near enough, his hands stay firmly in the pockets of his coat, but he leans over a little, brushing his arm against her. They are obviously the odd ones out.
Turning his attention back to the grown-ups talking, his jaw works. "Do you think it has anything to do with those fire things we fought?"
[Hunter] "Ye, just shifters, two dead'n'a spiral. If I getch'a a sketch'a'tha markin's would that help? Just need ta' know if'ya spot anythin' like that." His eyes say it, in that harsh stare that would wither Rain to dust or have her running back to the safety of her chuch. Even if his words don't just yet.
This isn't something to keep me from, Imogen.
He is brought back to the group by Milo's question and it takes him a moment to respond, when it does it starts of extremely brief.
"No."
And then adding as if just for Milo's benefit.
"They didn't have no sign'a tha' wyrm or nuthin' this was definitely some twisted shit. Dancer doin' the ritual'n'all."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's gaze flicks to Milo, adding a brief addition to Hunter's explanation. "Fire and animated don't sound tha' related, anyway."
Hunter glares at the doctor, imparting a sharp message in his gaze, and she regards him evenly. The hidden intent is not answered, and she only shrugs at his question. "Might help, won't hurt. Th'more details I know, the more likely I am t'find somethin'. I'll keep my eye out," she repeats herself. Perhaps the hidden intent is answered after all.
"Any reason t'think there might be more, or are yeh just bein' thorough?"
[Rain] Milo's arm brushes against hers, and it's Rain that pulls a hand out of her pocket and quietly, almost shyly reaches out to place her hand on his arm. It's as if she thinks any sudden or over movement will trigger Hunter's attention to sweep back her way with that scathing glare that steals away her breath, rips it from her lungs and makes it hard to draw a new one again.
Rain glances over, just long enough to catch his attention, to let her wide brown eyes find his calm, cool clear blues. I want to go. There is nothing clearer in her expression and however brief that eye contact is, the plea is evident. Now.
As if to punctuate that wordless request, Rain's other hand drops down to catch the handle of her guitar case. She glances to Imogen, and then side-long to Hunter. Of the two, the Doctor is offered a thin-lipped and uncomfortable smile. With or without the Ragabash, she will be taking her leave. Hunter is too much for her to handle. Hunter, and talk of reanimated Spirals, and Howard's death. Rain's not another one of those kin-with-guns type that she and Imogen had discussed in a pub one night. She knows her limits. Meet one of them: Ahrouns.
[Marni] She's restless. Restless and bored, and tired of cleaning the nursery which was spotless already before she got the urge to randomly change things around for the 400th time this week. Ray said she was nesting. She kicked him.
So, to work off the rest of the energy, she is wandering the streets of Lake View, all bundled up in a coat that won't quite button, an oversized sweatshirt underneath, jeans that she can't button all the way up, and her sturdy boots. Her hair - curly and unruly - is somewhat tempered by a knit hat.
It's cold, but not the coldest it's been - she's seen worse both at home, and here in Chicago before she moved in with her baby daddy. She keeps moving anyway, plodding (don't SAY she waddles) along the streets she knows intimately, since spending so much time living on them.
[Milo] Fire and animated don't go together. Dr. Slaughter will keep an eye out.
"Hm." He looks up at Hunter. "If you need any help..." lets it trail. Either he'll find Milo, or he won't.
The hand on his arm doesn't make him look down, doesn't make him startle or show any obvious signs of change. A tension eases out of him, though, like a weight's been lifted from his shoulders. He doesn't catch the glance, the look to the side, or the unspoken desire to leave the rage and the discussion about Spirals. What he catches is a louder signal, the one of Rain bending to retrieve the handle of her guitar case. Only Milo gets there fist, swinging it up to his side before Rain's fingertips can get within range.
She wants to go. Milo doesn't need to stay.
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Slaughter." Looking to Rain, her nods his head in the opposite direction she'd looked before. Seems the songbird and the Ragabash will be heading off together.
[and the CoGs are out! thanks for letting us crash your scene, guys!]
[Hunter] "Just being thorough." He says, and there's a twitching his jawline, a sucking of his cheeks while he breathes in through his nose. His cigarette, long since gone, is replaced with a smooth movement of his hand and he turns around just in time for Milo to give an unspoken offer of aid and then say goodbye to Imogen.
Hunter doesn't reply, just stands there with one hand cupping the end of his Camel while the other flicks at a Zippo. He watches them leave in silence before turning back to the woman with the vibrant red hair.
"I seem ta' have no fuckin' patience at all today."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's eyebrow arches. "Are you normally possessing an abundance?" she enquires, skeptically.
[Hunter] "Ha Ha, real fuckin' funny." He says, then grins, it's the first grin she has seen since he has arrived. He looks down at the ground briefly and the grin attempts to fade away before sparking back to life for brief moment.
[Marni] She rounds a corner and heads down the street, pausing only a moment when she sees a familiar figure outside her office. Random wanderings brought her this way - she doesn't often walk by the CCME offices - but she's seemed to walk by every other part of the city in the past few days, so why not. Just a few blocks past there is a diner with awesome chilli cheese fries, anyway, so it makes sense. Pregnancy has done nothing to deminish her perpetual hunger, at all.
She doesn't recognize the man who's standing with Dr. Slaughter, but Marni's never been the shy type anyway. She simply continues walking that way, and if and when Imogen looks up, she frees a hand from her pocket to wave, then tucks her bare fingers back into relative warmth of her coat once agian.
[Dr. Slaughter] Irrepressible, the corner of her mouth lifts. It's nowhere near Hunter's grin, but for Imogen, she of the subtle emotions and expressions, it is almost comparable.
"I'm a bloody comedian," she says, reaching into her jacket pockets, retrieving a bronze plated cigarette case and what appears to be a matching zippo. She thumbs open the former, plucking out a cigarette, and fitting it between her lips.
Imogen turns her head to look at someone approaching, her gaze narrowing - she's turned her head into the wind, and the smoke she exhales is blown back into her eyes. She exhales a little heavier than she might have, normally. A quiet resignation.
"Full-blood," she says as Marni approaches, and waves. "Know her?"
[Hunter] Somehow the mood of the last ten minutes is broken by two simple statements from the two of them. Hunter made an observation about his temperament and Imogen created a joke out of it, even if it was at the Ahrouns expense. That's all it took and then the two of them are showing their amusement in their own ways.
Her gaze narrows though, just as it had done earlier when someone was approaching. This time he doesn't have to turn around, this time he can get a good look at her with no more than the slight movement of his chin.
"No." His eyebrows narrow together, he studies her again. "Nah, ain't seen her before... " A pause. "Is she.. Jesus she is hella fuckin' pregnant." He sounds concerned, scared almost if that is possible.
"You aight??" He calls out to her.
[Marni] Hella fuckin' pregnant - well. That's one way to put it, and a very descriptive way too as she looks like she could drop that kid any day now. It'd be a relief to do so, anyway, though she's recently come to the conclusion that the Bean? Is never coming out. Ever. She's going to be pregnant until the end of time, and there's nothing she can do about it.
It's been a long nine months, is all.
Hunter asks if she's ok, and her lips curve into an easy smile, amused as hell. Her dark eyes sparkle with fun and mirth because - as much as things have changed, Marni remains fundamentally the same: full of fun, full of life.
Literally, right now.
"Well, I ain't fuckin' dead yet, so I suppose so. Heya Dr. Slaughter."
[Dr. Slaughter] The doctor's gaze moves, briefly, to Marni's bulging stomach, gravid with child, then lifts again. "Marni," her greeting is much more restrained than Marni's, and less epithet filled than either Gnawer's.
She tilts her head sharply toward Hunter, lifting her cigarette to her lips. "I'll let you introduce yerselves."
[Hunter] "Hunter Matthews," he says to her, but doesn't offer his hand despite what Imogen will recognise as a relaxed tone to his voice. It still has that edge of Rage, that tinge of madness, but he isn't shouting and he isn't swearing every second word.
Full Blood, he recalls. His eyes look around in case anyone else decides to just appear out of the umbra or back flip over the rock garden.
"Alpha o'tha Vanguard. Ahroun'a tha Gnawers."
[Marni] He doesn't offer a hand, and she arches a brow slightly, but just shrugs it off, as he introduces himself. "Marni Geller - Sticky Fingers, BG raggie extraordinaire." She lifts a hand and tips an imaginary hat with that same, irrepressible grin.
"Heard there was some others out an' about but been kinda layin low until I evacuate the Bean here." Safer that way, one supposes, though in Chicago, anything can happen.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen has, though only through the merest shifts of her body language, disconnected herself from the conversation, but she has not absolved herself of attention. She smokes her cigarette, tapping cigarette ash from time to time, turning her head to blow the cigarette smoke away from the Garou.
The word evacuate draws her attention, not to Marni's stomach, the purported 'bean'. but to the Garou, then fades again, as she lifts the smoke to her lips.
[Hunter] Oh god it's one of his tribe. He inwardly groans and outwardly smiles, it comes off as a rather confusing expression. He loves them all, and he hates them just as much.
"You one'a the fold eh? Well shit--- Ooohhh, Marni, right. Winston mentioned ya'." He blinks. "He said ya' was pregnant but he didn't say ya' was that fuckin' pregnant, what the hell you doin' walkin' around like that for girl?"
He isn't joking. Not even in the slightest.
[Marni] She arches a brow, at that, and laughs. "What, ya think jus cuz I'm big as a fuckin' house I should sit at home and knit fuckin' booties until I pop out this kid? Bein pregnant ain't a disease, darlin. Millions a'women have done it, an' managed t'walk themselves right on up to the due date an' kick it in the nads."
She rolls her eyes, and just grins at him. "I ain't sick or nuthin. Jus' fat. An' not for much longer."
[Hunter] Hunter looks at Imogen and raises an eyebrow to that comment from Marni and tries to suppress a grin.
"Jesus christ. She's fuckin' worse than me."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen glances up from her cigarette, her gaze flicking between the two Gnawers. "I think you're both equally badmouthed," she says, the words coming out in smoke. "Though I've not been counting."
[Marni] That makes her laugh, again, as she shrugs. "What can I say... Ya can take the rat outa the streets, but never the streets outa the motherfuckin' rat."
There's the feeling she never suppresses her grins - she smiles and laughs openly and honestly. There's the other side to that coin too, as Marni wears her emotions across her features without reservation, or care. She is who she is, like it or lump it. She's good either way - comfortable in her own skin. Well, mostly comfortable now, as the Bean is taking a bit out of her.
"Ya said Alpha, hm? Who's th'rest?"
[Hunter] "I am perfectly fuckin' well spoken thank you very much." He says to the doctor with a smile fading from his lips when he hears the question from Marni.
"Joey Oliver, n'had another but she's gone. Ophelia Harvey." His eyes narrow, jaw clenching again between words. "Coggie Theurge, feel last month."
And now Howard. Excellent.
[Hunter] [feel = fell .. I don't think anyone should be feeling her.]
[Marni] "Ah." She nods. She knows Joey, well, as much as anyone knows anyone else around here, though the other doesn't ring a bell. "Sorry for ya loss." Simple enough, and heartfelt too. They see a lot of loss here, enough to where some are hardened to it. Others, like herself, still feel each one keenly, even when they are unrecognized. It is a hopeless kind of war. Most are.
"I been outa the loop a bit - marinating, so ta speak. The happenstance of The Bean here put me in a bit a fuckin' hot water, but well. Back in action in a couple weeks, so seems like time t'reacquaint myself with th' natives, right?"
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen perhaps, is hardened to it. Though Hunter's statement draws a glance, there is no visible reaction. Her gaze moves to the sidewalk, watching as a human walks by them, and the wide berth the man gives them.
[Hunter] He waves a hand when she says sorry for his loss but the sentiment isn't dismissed completely. He nods to her, accepts it. She has been marinating she says and that makes hunters eyebrows narrow in semi-scared amusement.
Eyes drift down to her belly again.
"Jeeze you sure are pregnant.." He says almost to himself, stares at the mound where her stomach should be like it's some alien creature.
[Marni] The laughter returns, easily. "Don't worry, ain't gonna pop right here on th'street or make ya play midwife or nuthin. Hell, only had two or three pains so far t'day, ain't likely to happen for at LEAST another week..."
He stares, and she snorts. "Wanna touch it? It's like I swallowed some fuckin' alien or somethin.... ya can watch n feel'im roll around all up in there. It's pretty fuckin creepy..."
and well, fuckin' creepy is kinda fun. And Marni is incorrigible.
[Hunter] She asks if he wants to touch it and he visibly recoils, takes a step back and flicks away the cigarette in his hand. He stuffs his hands into his pockets.
"No no no.. no no no.." He nearly chants, shaking his head at the same time.
"It's aight really.. I mean.. s'a baby n'all.. I shouldn't.."
[Marni] She just laughs - having known that would be the reaction. "Ya ain't gonna hurt it - ain't like it ain't felt no fuckin' rage at all, ya know. I'm not completely bereft of that, right? S'all good."
She tucks her hands into her pockets, again, and shrugs.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen arches an eyebrow, glancing between the two Garou, though she does not seem as amused by this as Marni. Her expression is carefully void of any hints.
"I'm rather sure it's not that he's afraid of hurting it," she remarks, turning away to flick the remains of her cigarette toward the gutter.
[Marni] She chuckles again and shrugs. "No skin off my nose - ya get used t'random strangers wanting to touch the belly. Makes ones that are vehemently against it amusin as hell."
She lifts a hand and scratches at the back of her neck, idly, before looking at the Doc again. "So. How's things with you?"
[Dr. Slaughter] An exhale of breath suggests that Imogen would not find that easy to become accustomed to at all. Then again, the kinswoman's stomach is flat and taught, and there has never been any evidence of children.in her life.
One cannot understand it unless one has lived it, and Imogen, clearly has not, and this, more than anything she says to a Garou or her courage or her willpower speaks to her quiet rebellion.
Marni's question provokes a slight shrug. "Well enough," she says. "Work and corpses mostly. Makes fer scintillating conversation, doesn't it just?"
[Marni] The kin's stomach is flat and taught, and Marni often bemoans that her's will never be the same again - which it won't, but Ray assures her that she'll still be attractive. of course, Ray has a solid self-preservation streak that insists he say such stuff while his mate is as big as a damn house with his kid. Smart man, Ray.
She glances at Hunter, who's fallen near silent, and then back to Imogen. She chuckles and nods. "Ain't for polite company, I'm sure. Course, I ain't never been accused of bein fuckin' polite, have I?"
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen smirks. "S'not about polite company," she says, "S'about interestin' conversation. Eventually, things get repetitive. Unless I've got a body tha' the Garou might find interesting.
"Then it's a debrief, not a conversation." No sorrow or reluctance in her tone. The turn of conversation is wit and the truth, not something Imogen regrets.
[Marni] She nods, and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "I can see that. Ain't like it's all fiction like Bones or some shit, where every case is different an thought provokin, right? Seems t'me most cases would be typical an' uninterestin. Then again, I ain't one t'go around stickin my hands in dead bodies, neither."
She chuckles. "Ain't debreifin fun?" Not so much, that look says. Had her fair share of it, despite being full blooded.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists, "No. It's rather less glamorous than fiction. Rather like comparin' yer life to American Werewolf in London, isn't it just?"
[Marni] She laughs outright. "Yeah, pretty much."
She looks toward where Hunter has w"ondered off too, curious. "Known him long?
[Dr. Slaughter] The kinswoman's gaze is pulled in the direction of Marni's, lingering briefly before she turns back. "Less than a week, I think. Though he's been around long enough t'claim territory."
[Marni] "Ain't take long for that with some." almost mused, but then she nods. "Joey's been gone a bit, as I remember. Wonder where they hooked up..." idle commentary, before she shrugs again. Packless herself, since Mama's little bullshit move, she isn't necessarily looking to take that kind of risk again. Yet.
"KNow where it is? His territory, I mean.."
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Lakeview was the spot to be tonight for BoneGnawers. Lou's on the prowl for a shiny new caddy, her hips rolling with languid lazy grace in torn washed out jeans. Too tight. Too torn. She wasn't from around here, that much was clear. Those dragon lady nails were straight out of the ghetto, as were the hoop earrings and gawdy bracelets in genuine plasti-gold. She slows up as she approaches a parked car, tipping her shades down to better inspect the - hey shit was that a kin? Lou's swagger halts as she bellows across the street to Imogen.*
Sheeyit. Girl you's ~pasty~.
[Dr. Slaughter] "Bronzeville," the answer comes quickly and easily - the kinswoman has no doubt. "I don't know the boundaries, though."
The wind has pushed hair into her eyes, and Imogen lifts a hand to push them away. At this moment, someone hollers in Imogen's direction, referring to her - admittedly - rather pale skin.
The kinswoman barely casts a glance the Gnawer's way.
[Hunter] "Just being thorough." He says, and there's a twitching his jawline, a sucking of his cheeks while he breathes in through his nose. His cigarette, long since gone, is replaced with a smooth movement of his hand and he turns around just in time for Milo to give an unspoken offer of aid and then say goodbye to Imogen.
Hunter doesn't reply, just stands there with one hand cupping the end of his Camel while the other flicks at a Zippo. He watches them leave in silence before turning back to the woman with the vibrant red hair.
"I seem ta' have no fuckin' patience at all today."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's eyebrow arches. "Are you normally possessing an abundance?" she enquires, skeptically.
[Hunter] "Ha Ha, real fuckin' funny." He says, then grins, it's the first grin she has seen since he has arrived. He looks down at the ground briefly and the grin attempts to fade away before sparking back to life for brief moment.
[Marni] She rounds a corner and heads down the street, pausing only a moment when she sees a familiar figure outside her office. Random wanderings brought her this way - she doesn't often walk by the CCME offices - but she's seemed to walk by every other part of the city in the past few days, so why not. Just a few blocks past there is a diner with awesome chilli cheese fries, anyway, so it makes sense. Pregnancy has done nothing to deminish her perpetual hunger, at all.
She doesn't recognize the man who's standing with Dr. Slaughter, but Marni's never been the shy type anyway. She simply continues walking that way, and if and when Imogen looks up, she frees a hand from her pocket to wave, then tucks her bare fingers back into relative warmth of her coat once agian.
[Dr. Slaughter] Irrepressible, the corner of her mouth lifts. It's nowhere near Hunter's grin, but for Imogen, she of the subtle emotions and expressions, it is almost comparable.
"I'm a bloody comedian," she says, reaching into her jacket pockets, retrieving a bronze plated cigarette case and what appears to be a matching zippo. She thumbs open the former, plucking out a cigarette, and fitting it between her lips.
Imogen turns her head to look at someone approaching, her gaze narrowing - she's turned her head into the wind, and the smoke she exhales is blown back into her eyes. She exhales a little heavier than she might have, normally. A quiet resignation.
"Full-blood," she says as Marni approaches, and waves. "Know her?"
[Hunter] Somehow the mood of the last ten minutes is broken by two simple statements from the two of them. Hunter made an observation about his temperament and Imogen created a joke out of it, even if it was at the Ahrouns expense. That's all it took and then the two of them are showing their amusement in their own ways.
Her gaze narrows though, just as it had done earlier when someone was approaching. This time he doesn't have to turn around, this time he can get a good look at her with no more than the slight movement of his chin.
"No." His eyebrows narrow together, he studies her again. "Nah, ain't seen her before... " A pause. "Is she.. Jesus she is hella fuckin' pregnant." He sounds concerned, scared almost if that is possible.
"You aight??" He calls out to her.
[Marni] Hella fuckin' pregnant - well. That's one way to put it, and a very descriptive way too as she looks like she could drop that kid any day now. It'd be a relief to do so, anyway, though she's recently come to the conclusion that the Bean? Is never coming out. Ever. She's going to be pregnant until the end of time, and there's nothing she can do about it.
It's been a long nine months, is all.
Hunter asks if she's ok, and her lips curve into an easy smile, amused as hell. Her dark eyes sparkle with fun and mirth because - as much as things have changed, Marni remains fundamentally the same: full of fun, full of life.
Literally, right now.
"Well, I ain't fuckin' dead yet, so I suppose so. Heya Dr. Slaughter."
[Dr. Slaughter] The doctor's gaze moves, briefly, to Marni's bulging stomach, gravid with child, then lifts again. "Marni," her greeting is much more restrained than Marni's, and less epithet filled than either Gnawer's.
She tilts her head sharply toward Hunter, lifting her cigarette to her lips. "I'll let you introduce yerselves."
[Hunter] "Hunter Matthews," he says to her, but doesn't offer his hand despite what Imogen will recognise as a relaxed tone to his voice. It still has that edge of Rage, that tinge of madness, but he isn't shouting and he isn't swearing every second word.
Full Blood, he recalls. His eyes look around in case anyone else decides to just appear out of the umbra or back flip over the rock garden.
"Alpha o'tha Vanguard. Ahroun'a tha Gnawers."
[Marni] He doesn't offer a hand, and she arches a brow slightly, but just shrugs it off, as he introduces himself. "Marni Geller - Sticky Fingers, BG raggie extraordinaire." She lifts a hand and tips an imaginary hat with that same, irrepressible grin.
"Heard there was some others out an' about but been kinda layin low until I evacuate the Bean here." Safer that way, one supposes, though in Chicago, anything can happen.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen has, though only through the merest shifts of her body language, disconnected herself from the conversation, but she has not absolved herself of attention. She smokes her cigarette, tapping cigarette ash from time to time, turning her head to blow the cigarette smoke away from the Garou.
The word evacuate draws her attention, not to Marni's stomach, the purported 'bean'. but to the Garou, then fades again, as she lifts the smoke to her lips.
[Hunter] Oh god it's one of his tribe. He inwardly groans and outwardly smiles, it comes off as a rather confusing expression. He loves them all, and he hates them just as much.
"You one'a the fold eh? Well shit--- Ooohhh, Marni, right. Winston mentioned ya'." He blinks. "He said ya' was pregnant but he didn't say ya' was that fuckin' pregnant, what the hell you doin' walkin' around like that for girl?"
He isn't joking. Not even in the slightest.
[Marni] She arches a brow, at that, and laughs. "What, ya think jus cuz I'm big as a fuckin' house I should sit at home and knit fuckin' booties until I pop out this kid? Bein pregnant ain't a disease, darlin. Millions a'women have done it, an' managed t'walk themselves right on up to the due date an' kick it in the nads."
She rolls her eyes, and just grins at him. "I ain't sick or nuthin. Jus' fat. An' not for much longer."
[Hunter] Hunter looks at Imogen and raises an eyebrow to that comment from Marni and tries to suppress a grin.
"Jesus christ. She's fuckin' worse than me."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen glances up from her cigarette, her gaze flicking between the two Gnawers. "I think you're both equally badmouthed," she says, the words coming out in smoke. "Though I've not been counting."
[Marni] That makes her laugh, again, as she shrugs. "What can I say... Ya can take the rat outa the streets, but never the streets outa the motherfuckin' rat."
There's the feeling she never suppresses her grins - she smiles and laughs openly and honestly. There's the other side to that coin too, as Marni wears her emotions across her features without reservation, or care. She is who she is, like it or lump it. She's good either way - comfortable in her own skin. Well, mostly comfortable now, as the Bean is taking a bit out of her.
"Ya said Alpha, hm? Who's th'rest?"
[Hunter] "I am perfectly fuckin' well spoken thank you very much." He says to the doctor with a smile fading from his lips when he hears the question from Marni.
"Joey Oliver, n'had another but she's gone. Ophelia Harvey." His eyes narrow, jaw clenching again between words. "Coggie Theurge, feel last month."
And now Howard. Excellent.
[Hunter] [feel = fell .. I don't think anyone should be feeling her.]
[Marni] "Ah." She nods. She knows Joey, well, as much as anyone knows anyone else around here, though the other doesn't ring a bell. "Sorry for ya loss." Simple enough, and heartfelt too. They see a lot of loss here, enough to where some are hardened to it. Others, like herself, still feel each one keenly, even when they are unrecognized. It is a hopeless kind of war. Most are.
"I been outa the loop a bit - marinating, so ta speak. The happenstance of The Bean here put me in a bit a fuckin' hot water, but well. Back in action in a couple weeks, so seems like time t'reacquaint myself with th' natives, right?"
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen perhaps, is hardened to it. Though Hunter's statement draws a glance, there is no visible reaction. Her gaze moves to the sidewalk, watching as a human walks by them, and the wide berth the man gives them.
[Hunter] He waves a hand when she says sorry for his loss but the sentiment isn't dismissed completely. He nods to her, accepts it. She has been marinating she says and that makes hunters eyebrows narrow in semi-scared amusement.
Eyes drift down to her belly again.
"Jeeze you sure are pregnant.." He says almost to himself, stares at the mound where her stomach should be like it's some alien creature.
[Marni] The laughter returns, easily. "Don't worry, ain't gonna pop right here on th'street or make ya play midwife or nuthin. Hell, only had two or three pains so far t'day, ain't likely to happen for at LEAST another week..."
He stares, and she snorts. "Wanna touch it? It's like I swallowed some fuckin' alien or somethin.... ya can watch n feel'im roll around all up in there. It's pretty fuckin creepy..."
and well, fuckin' creepy is kinda fun. And Marni is incorrigible.
[Hunter] She asks if he wants to touch it and he visibly recoils, takes a step back and flicks away the cigarette in his hand. He stuffs his hands into his pockets.
"No no no.. no no no.." He nearly chants, shaking his head at the same time.
"It's aight really.. I mean.. s'a baby n'all.. I shouldn't.."
[Marni] She just laughs - having known that would be the reaction. "Ya ain't gonna hurt it - ain't like it ain't felt no fuckin' rage at all, ya know. I'm not completely bereft of that, right? S'all good."
She tucks her hands into her pockets, again, and shrugs.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen arches an eyebrow, glancing between the two Garou, though she does not seem as amused by this as Marni. Her expression is carefully void of any hints.
"I'm rather sure it's not that he's afraid of hurting it," she remarks, turning away to flick the remains of her cigarette toward the gutter.
[Marni] She chuckles again and shrugs. "No skin off my nose - ya get used t'random strangers wanting to touch the belly. Makes ones that are vehemently against it amusin as hell."
She lifts a hand and scratches at the back of her neck, idly, before looking at the Doc again. "So. How's things with you?"
[Dr. Slaughter] An exhale of breath suggests that Imogen would not find that easy to become accustomed to at all. Then again, the kinswoman's stomach is flat and taught, and there has never been any evidence of children.in her life.
One cannot understand it unless one has lived it, and Imogen, clearly has not, and this, more than anything she says to a Garou or her courage or her willpower speaks to her quiet rebellion.
Marni's question provokes a slight shrug. "Well enough," she says. "Work and corpses mostly. Makes fer scintillating conversation, doesn't it just?"
[Marni] The kin's stomach is flat and taught, and Marni often bemoans that her's will never be the same again - which it won't, but Ray assures her that she'll still be attractive. of course, Ray has a solid self-preservation streak that insists he say such stuff while his mate is as big as a damn house with his kid. Smart man, Ray.
She glances at Hunter, who's fallen near silent, and then back to Imogen. She chuckles and nods. "Ain't for polite company, I'm sure. Course, I ain't never been accused of bein fuckin' polite, have I?"
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen smirks. "S'not about polite company," she says, "S'about interestin' conversation. Eventually, things get repetitive. Unless I've got a body tha' the Garou might find interesting.
"Then it's a debrief, not a conversation." No sorrow or reluctance in her tone. The turn of conversation is wit and the truth, not something Imogen regrets.
[Marni] She nods, and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "I can see that. Ain't like it's all fiction like Bones or some shit, where every case is different an thought provokin, right? Seems t'me most cases would be typical an' uninterestin. Then again, I ain't one t'go around stickin my hands in dead bodies, neither."
She chuckles. "Ain't debreifin fun?" Not so much, that look says. Had her fair share of it, despite being full blooded.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists, "No. It's rather less glamorous than fiction. Rather like comparin' yer life to American Werewolf in London, isn't it just?"
[Marni] She laughs outright. "Yeah, pretty much."
She looks toward where Hunter has w"ondered off too, curious. "Known him long?
[Dr. Slaughter] The kinswoman's gaze is pulled in the direction of Marni's, lingering briefly before she turns back. "Less than a week, I think. Though he's been around long enough t'claim territory."
[Marni] "Ain't take long for that with some." almost mused, but then she nods. "Joey's been gone a bit, as I remember. Wonder where they hooked up..." idle commentary, before she shrugs again. Packless herself, since Mama's little bullshit move, she isn't necessarily looking to take that kind of risk again. Yet.
"KNow where it is? His territory, I mean.."
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Lakeview was the spot to be tonight for BoneGnawers. Lou's on the prowl for a shiny new caddy, her hips rolling with languid lazy grace in torn washed out jeans. Too tight. Too torn. She wasn't from around here, that much was clear. Those dragon lady nails were straight out of the ghetto, as were the hoop earrings and gawdy bracelets in genuine plasti-gold. She slows up as she approaches a parked car, tipping her shades down to better inspect the - hey shit was that a kin? Lou's swagger halts as she bellows across the street to Imogen.*
Sheeyit. Girl you's ~pasty~.
[Dr. Slaughter] "Bronzeville," the answer comes quickly and easily - the kinswoman has no doubt. "I don't know the boundaries, though."
The wind has pushed hair into her eyes, and Imogen lifts a hand to push them away. At this moment, someone hollers in Imogen's direction, referring to her - admittedly - rather pale skin.
The kinswoman barely casts a glance the Gnawer's way.
[Marni] She nods. "I'll find'it. Thanks."
Then, ghetto girl is a yellin, and she steps to the side a little to look over at Lou. She arches a brow, slightly, and then looks back at Imogen.
"...and folks think I'm a fuckin loudmouth..."
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Obnoxiousness coming naturally to the gnawer, she tips her glasses back onto her nose and straks across the street towards the pair. Lou weaving between cars that proceed to lean on the horn in irritation at having to slow for a nanosecond to avoid hitting her. Stopping, the gnawer goes hipshod, looking marni and Imo over in turn.*
Fuck, Ain't you just about to slip a kid? And you, Red. You got that deer all ova' yo ass.
[Dr. Slaughter] "Loudmouth is not the word I would use," Imogen says, quietly, before the sound of a blaring horn draws her attention to Lou as she strides across the street. An eyebrow arches.
"And you're a full-blood. Now that we've finished statin' the obvious, perhaps we can move on?"
[Marni] Marni nods. "Polite company an' all that shit." It's said with a wry grin.
To Lou though, she straightens up, and shakes her head. "Yeah, any day now - an' I'ma ask ya to treat the Doc here with respect. Get me?"
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] *Lou's head draws back, cranking at an angle as she gives the Doctor a sidelong look. One over-plucked eyebrow quirked up in question. Oh really? Long lingernails fish bubblegum off of her teeth, before the wad of pink is shoved back into her mouth and the chewing resumes, Lou looking to Marni.*
You go ahead an' tell me what I said ain't been respectful, baby mama. You go ON ahead.
[Marni] She just chuckles. "If I tell ya, ya ain't gonna learn nuthin, are ya? This is a business area, so quit bellowin like ya babydaddy stole all ya weed, an' fucked ya neighbor. Jesus, ain't ya got no decorum?"
Said the pot to the kettle.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's gaze flicks between Garou to Garou, Gnawer to Gnawer, reaching into her jacket pocket to retrieve a bronze plated cigarette place.
"Traditionally," she says, "one offers introductions before discussing another's 'ass'."
There couldn't be a sharper contrast than between Lou and Imogen. The kinswoman isn't even American. Pale skin to dark skin. Refinement to long, fake fingernails and snapping bubblegum.
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] You ain't been clubbin in awhile, have you girl? Its Lou.
*A snort steams in the chill air at Marni's comment. A dismissive wave of the ghetto diva's palm.*
Ain't I got no Decorum? Shit, I dunno. I ain't heard of it. It one of them chemical drugs? Cause hells naw, I don't do that shit. Neither should you, fuckin' fat as you is right now. You gotta name?
[Marni] She glances toward Imogen, laughter dancing in her gaze, before she turns back to offer a simple... "Marni."
[Dr. Slaughter] "We aren't in a club," this is a mild observation, all things considered. Imogen meets Marni's, but there is no laughter echoed.
"Imogen."
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] Imogen. Well if that ain't ominous. Ain't that the place in China got a shit-tonne of fuckin A-bombs dropped on it, or some shit?
*POP. her bubblegum was thick as taffy in the cold, Lou looking over her shoulder as a sleek sport scar prowls passed. Ahroun taking note of which direction it was going with interest.*
[Marni] She blinks. She had never placed Imogen's name as something omnious, and it takes her a bit to connect it with what Lou says... even then it's a stretch. "That would be Hiroshima."
Someone paid attention in history class...
[Dr. Slaughter] A smirk twists the kinswoman's mouth. "Not remotely related, no."
She lights up a cigarette with a zippo that matches the case, then both disappear into her jacket pocket.
[Lou Cracka'Jack Perkins] Hiro-Shima. Asian's name their joints some weird assed fuckin names...
*Its half mumbled through gum. Distracted. Car holding the whole of Lou's attention.*
You bitches stay chill... Gotta get paid.
*A ptoo of her gum onto the sidewalk is all that follows. It would seem that is what suffices for goodbye in Lou's hood-rat world. Her sunglasses flipped up as she's suddenly loping like some strange ghetto gazelle, down the sidewalk and around the corner. A mutt chasing cars.*
[Marni] Marni just stares after her... it's not often Marni is left speechless, but it does happen. and doesn't last long.
"....jesus."
Yeah, that about covers it.
[Dr. Slaughter] "Goodnight," Imogen says, her voice mild in Lou's wake.
The Gnawer leaves, and after several seconds, Marni finally offers her opinion. "So much for polite company," Imogen replies absently.
[Marni] She blinks, then chuckles, and tugs her hat back into place a bit. "Sorry." She's not, really. And she's certainly not apologizing for Lou, despite being of the same Tribe. They do tend to gather the rejects and make them useful as they can - Lou has to have something in her not to have been killed.
Yet.
"You hungry?"
[Dr. Slaughter] "I daresay I've heard the word before," Imogen replies, evenly. Marni asks if she's hungry, and the words are doubtlessly a lead in to a suggestion they share a meal.
She pauses briefly before inclining her head. "I am," she says. "Let me grab my things, and if yeh're interested we'll find somewhere fer food."
[Marni] That makes her laugh again, before Imogen says she'll get her things. "Definitely interested - I'm fuckin' starving."
Some things never change... "Know a place with good cheese fries? Got a cravin something fierce..."
[Dr. Slaughter] Marni's starving. "Of course yeh are."
Imogen pauses, before she shakes her head. "No," she says, "s'not exactly my area of expertise is it?" she pulls out her phone as she heads up the steps, lifting it in a gesture. "I'll ask someone who might know and get back t'yeh. Won't be a moment."
The front doors of the Office of the Cook County Medical Examiner are locked; Imogen must use a key to get in, and they shut heavily behind her.
She is not long getting her things, a handbag and a brief case. Her phone is still in her hand as she descends the stairs. "He wants t'know if it's chili cheese fries or cheese fries wi' bacon or what."
[Marni] She laughs and shrugs. "Never know what things Doctor's like to eat. You could have a fondness for all things fried and cheesy, for all I know." But she nods at the intent to discover, and leans back against the wall to wait. She runs her hands over her lower back, digging into the muscles there with a grimace before relaxing back again.
When Imogen returns, her eyes light up. "Oooooooh bacon... EVERYTHING is better with Bacon!"
Words to live by.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists into a minor smirk, before she begins typing on the phone again. The phone chimes as the message is sent, then a few minutes later as one is received.
"Alright, s'Darcy McGees a few blocks o'er. C'mon then." A few strides pass before Imogen adds, "I hope yeh enjoy it, because I'll ha' to suffer a few days o' teasin'. He thinks they're for me, and is currently in shock."
[Marni] She grins and falls into step with Imogen, though with care. She doesn't walk with as much ease as before - her center of gravity is all wrong, and she takes extra care with the ice so as not to fall. It's not that she's worried about hurting herself - just knows there's not a crane anywhere near in order to get her UP if she gets down that far.
Imogen'll have to suffer some teasing, and Marni laughs easily. "Sorry." not really. "You could just tell them it was a craving for a pregnant acquaintance, and thus get him to stop." She'd never claim it to be her friend - though she wouldn't deny it either. she simply doesn't make assumptions that way of the good Doc.
[Dr. Slaughter] The rhythm of Imogen's stride alters subtly to match Marni's, and off they go, two very different figures. Imogen, sleek and fit, Marni gravid in the final weeks of the pregnancy.
She exhales sharply in amusement as Marni speaks. "No, then I'll have t'field questions about said pregnant acquaintance." A pause, a glance. "He's human. Best t'keep it simple."
The wind is cold and the temperature has dropped with the sun setting. Imogen pulls the edges of her jacket closer together, her leather gloved hands slipping into her pockets.
[Marni] "True. He'd want to see pictures of the bean, and all, and decide you're an auntie, and then be all about asking questions for months on end..." It's said with a smile, amused as well. She'd let Imogen handle it however she sees fit, anyway.
"But rest assured - bacon and cheese fries will be TOTALLY worth it..." Imogen pulls her coat together, and Marni is tempted to do the same, but for the simple fact that it won't do any good. She knows her coat won't close around her any longer, so simply puts up with the additional chill. If she notices that Imogen adjusts her stride to match her own, she doesn't mention it. She is, however, thankful for it.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's eyebrow arches. "You're alone on these cheese fries, yeh know this, right? I'm not helping."
[Marni] She laughs and nods. "Of course. Ya gotta keep them 6pack abs somehow, right? Me, i got weeks before I have to worry bout that again..."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen nods slightly, and for several strides, says nothing. Then, a question, perhaps one unexpected. After all, she has shown little interest in Marni's pregnancy.
"Yeh ha' someone to help you?" she asks. "When it's time."
[Marni] She blinks, and looks over at Imogen for a moment, before turning her gaze back to the the way in front of them, where she eyes slippery patches and avoids them with the ease of one well used to judging the streets and their hazards.
It may seem lke she's not going to answer, for a long moment, until she admits with a shake of her head. "No. Ain't found anyone who can. Might have t'see if Mama Jane can make it - but she's got three girls back home she's already helpin."
[Dr. Slaughter] "If she can't," Imogen says, "Try Hill House. One o' the kinfolk might be able t'help, or at least get yeh in touch wi' someone who can."
They come to a stop at an intersection, Imogen reaching over to press the cross-walk button, and waiting, cars passing, for the light to change.
[Marni] She nods, slightly. "S'where I took my test t'see if the rabbit died. They had a girl workin there for a while who was one of ours - but she ain't there anymore. Hopefully someone there knows somethin' about birthin babies, cuz I sure as hell ain't got any idea what I'm doin."
She wrinkles her nose, then chuckles. "An' Ray's scared shitless. So yeah, figure if I can't get Mama here, it'll be there."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen nods slightly. "Let me know if yeh can't find anyone. I might be able to find yeh someone." A flick of a glance, a wry smirk. "Just don't call me while yeh're in labour. I won't ha' time t'find yeh anyone."
As a doctor, perhaps it is important to note that Imogen does not offer to help herself. Then again, given her profession, perhaps it is easy to assume that she would not be an appropriate choice.
The light changes, and she begins to cross.
[Marni] She grins at her, and nods. "Yessum. Gonna find someone this week as I figure I've left it late enough to already be chancing it. Ray ain't happy I haven't seen no doc since the beginning, but well, we been doin this kinda things for millions of years, figure one more pregnant streetrat skippin out on the docs ain't gonna change the odds on it all. Only guarentee is that it'll be a baby, an' it'll be naked."
She steps off the curb with Imogen, and is quiet a few steps. Then.. "Thanks." For the offer to help - long as she's not in labor, of course.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen smirks faintly. "Frankly, a Garou goin' t' a doctor is probably more risk than not goin'. I can't imagine yer blood work bein' the same as a human's. Nor yer metabolisms."
Her shoulders lift in a shrug, "One risk o'er the other, I suppose."
Marni thanks her, and Imogen casts her a dark eyed glance. They are between lamp posts, and in the shadow, her eyes are nearly black. "Don't mention it," she says, simply.
[Marni] "Yeah - s'what I figured too. An' the only thing that got Ray to calm about it." He's very much the nervous new dad, and with them trying to piece together a relationship out of something that had been fundamentally more physical on top of it all... well. It's been a long nine months, and neither can predict what will happen afterwards.
Curious, then... "Have ya ever looked at bloodwork an' compared? Some folks think there's a gene or some shit, or somethin that's way different tween us an' humans. Never known if anyone went about confirmin it or if it's just conjecture."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen shakes her head, "Only a little. On the side, like. I've not got the facilities t'do it, or when I do, I can't guarantee t'do it privately. Besides," a smirk twists her mouth. "S'not much benefit to it, is there? Other than satisfying my curiosity."
A pause. "I know tha' there are certain chemicals tha' can be made to effect only full-bloods though. Empirically, that suggests a difference between humans and Garou."
[Marni] She nods, and scratches the back of her neck, idly, before resting her hand on her belly. It's an unconscious move, protective in a way, and something universal to all pregnant women. "Satisfyin curiosity is good too though - specially if there's somethin t'affect only us. Course, the further study would be to see if there's somethin' that could be made to affect only those of the Hive n shit, if there's more differences t'ones that have fallen."
She wrinkles her nose, then shrugs. "I dunno. I jus' get curious is all. Seems like theres gotta be other ways t'fight than tooth an' claw."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen shakes her head, "The only thing I've seen tha' can affect Full-bloods, affect both sides."
A few more steps of silence, this a thoughtful silence. Imogen is, primarily, a woman of science. Things occur due to chemical reactions, due to biological functions. Everything has a cause, a reason, and if science does not know it yet, it is merely because science has not discovered it.
A conversation such as this stimulates her.
"Based on - well, what we know, though, I don't imagine tha' there would be much of a difference between you and the cursed ones. Yeh all come from the same stock. There's a possibility o' a difference - the rift occurred hundreds o' years ago, if I recall correctly, but likely only if they remained isolated and were not impacted by you and yers, ever."
A pause, and then a faint tilt of her head. "Given how many o' yer kind defect, that's unlikely."
[Marni] She nods, again. "Yeah, I can see that. Even if there was differences, it'd be too minute t'make much use of it. T'do something as a whole, would risk more damage to ourselves, an' our number is already smaller than theirs." It'd be a bit like cuttin off one's nose to spite the face.
"An since they're quite a bit more... liberal... about monitoring the charrachin, even somethin' that targeted jus' their kin wouldn't work either. They breed faster than we can, since they ain't care bout the defects - jus' use them anyway."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen nods, thoughtful.
"If there were a chemical change t'being cursed, that might be different. But it would take years to find. Some humans spend their whole lives studyin' various aspects of disease, genetics, et cetera, and never find anything."
She smirks, slightly. "And they haven't got the supernatural aspect t'contend with."
[Marni] She chuckles. "Makes it a bit harder, I wager. And we don't have the lifetimes t'learn what we'd need ta - if it even existed in the first place."
Some might find this conversation odd, because it involves the streetrat. They expect such things from the doc, but others of the sept have already written Marni off as useless, pathetic, honorless, and spineless. Fact is, she is none of those things, and while she's been sidelined and unable to shift, she's had little to do other than think. And despite appearances - Marni is intelligent. Sure, not like the Doc, but smart none the less.
"It's interesting t'think about though, sometimes. Specially when ya have t'rely on brains rather than tooth an claw for a spell. Th'first shift after the bean arrives? Is gonna be HEAVENLY..."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen fires Marni a brief, unreadable glance. A half dozen feet away is Darcy McGees. Several feet pass in silence.
"If I were to discover anything," she says, "I'd like t'discover the science o' that." They're at the door by now. She reaches for it, pulling it open, and stepping inside, and holding it absently for Marni to make her slower way up the stairs and inside.
[Marni] She nods, slightly, and makes her way up the stairs behind the kinswoman, using the railing to steady herself, to haul her bulk upwards. She is SO glad there's an elevator at Ray's place. So, so glad. She takes the door so that Imogen can go the rest of the way inside, and joins her over the threshold.
"I can imagine - it'd be facinatin to see if there's a scientific reason, that could be replicated."
She smiles, easily, even in the wake of that unreadable glance. Then, the smile widens as the scents of Darcy McGees fills her senses... her belly audibly grumbles it's anticipation as she does so.
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen shakes her head slightly. "I don't imagine it could be replicated, and if it could, well." Imogen's mouth twists. "I would imagine that would not be a good road.
"But, t'understand it. And explain th'physics and the biology behind it." Imogen's mouth curves slightly, then the expression fades.
"There has t'be something."
The place is seat yourself - Imogen begins to weave through tables to find them a spot with a view of the door - the latter, potentially, coincidental.
[Marni] She chuckles... "Yeah. Somethin that ain't 'magic'. Most scientists I met - and I done met a few o'em - don't like that answer for anything."
She follows, slower, moving a chair or two in a couple places to get through. She doesn't say anything else until Imogen finds them a spot. Marni peels out of her coat, warm already, and tugs her hat off her head, her curls springing up in joyful freedom.
"It'd be hard t'explain the physics, I'd think. Just the sheer impossibility of what th'body is doing..."
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen leaves her jacket on, smoothing it beneath her thighs as she takes a seat. The warmth begins to seep through her clothing welcome after so long in the chill.
"There's an explanation," Imogen answers. "'Magic' is just th'easy answer."
[Marni] "The catch all for what has yet t'be explained." She settles to her seat with a whoosh of breath, and just closes her eyes for a moment, letting the tiredness she won't admit too while up and moving take front and center for just a breath or two.
Then, she's shoving her hat into her pocket, and hanging her coat on the back of her chair. She faces Imogen again, her look thoughtful. "Even when we're doin it - we ain't much think about the how. Usually don't have th'time to, of course, but never really think about what we're askin our bodies t'accomplish."
[Dr. Slaughter] Marni displays her exhaustion, and when she opens her eyes, she finds Imogen's gaze upon her, but unconcerned. It is simply there, direct, acknowledging. Marni speaks and Imogen shakes her head. "Yeh don't ask yerself how yeh breathe. Or how yer heart beats. S'the same thing, I imagine. S'not every human who asks how they lift their leg or close their hands to make a fist."
A faint smirk. "S'just a few."
[Marni] She chuckles and nods. "Probably a good thing, else everyone end up doin the questionin, an' no one makin the fists when needed."
She well knows the role of questioner, as it falls to her auspice to be so for the entire nation. Though it's not the same as studying the science, it is the same in that it begins from a deep curiosity of 'why' and 'how' instead of simply 'is.'
[Dr. Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists. "Sounds almost poetic."
Here the waitress arrives to ask for their orders or do they need a menu. It's the kind of place where the majority of the patrons know exactly what they want and in this case, at least Marni does.
It turns out Imogen does as well - a club sandwich with a side salad and a coffee.
[Marni] "I have my moments..." she says with a grin, and then looks up to shower the waitress with an eager smile. "I hear your cheesefries with bacon are the absolute perfect cure for a craving - so a heaping helping of those, and a glass of tea, please."
along with the first shift? That first BEER when she can have one will be near orgasmic. Tea and water and soda and coffee and more water... its just not the same, not good enough.
[Dr. Slaughter] The pub is warm and warm-wood, cozy low hanging lights, with female waitresses walking around with short-short kilts. It is a joke of an Irish bar, the kind of place most true Britons detest. Still, they were here for the food and not the atmosphere.
The waitress coos over Imogen's accent. Asks her if it's Irish, and Imogen says no, but does not clarify what it is.
Throughout the night, the server will mention how much she loves it, and even has her manager - a rather beleaguered Irishman, bowing to the requests of the American public, come over to hear it. She leaves immediately after imploring her boss to listen, and for a moment, Imogen and the Irishman share a flat look, and the owner says, in a thick brogue that he hopes they have a good night, and leaves without actually demanding that Imogen share her own accent.
There is not much more conversation. What they had to say to each other, really, has been spent. The food does not take long to arrive, and Imogen only eats half of hers. At the end, she pays the entire bill.
Then, they go their separate ways.