Compromise.

[Imogen] The building is old, the windows smashed and boarded up, the doorway blocked with lumber. It is a sad derelict, the old brick falling apart at the corners, the mortar chipped away by time and weather. If the area were part of gentrification, the edifice would likely be replaced by a condominium, a beacon of revitalization, the first step of many. Or the hundredth step of many. Whatever.

Though the politicians speak and promise and blow hot air on and on about the improvement of the city's slums, there is no money. And instead, the building stands abandoned, boarded up windows like eye sockets, the door a toothless mouth.

Or perhaps a gaping maw. The boards have been shattered outward, leaving sharp stakes and splinters jutting inwards, most of the wood discoloured, red and rust, which on closer inspection is dried blood, in large enough quantities to soak through the grain.

There is an almost perfect silence within and no sense of immediate danger. The blood is not fresh, the wood is broken outward.

After a moment, a scrape of something on concrete within. He is not alone.

[Hunter] He isn't much of a detective. Hunter Matthews couldn't be one of those guys on those shows, the ones with aviators and long overcoats. But he has eyes, he has a brain, he has motivation. Few buildings on his patrol get searched, even fewer get thoroughly studied and examined from the inside-out. There are just too many of them and too few hours. It isn't like he goes looking for trouble, in fact he doesn't look particularly prepared for an individual who is viewing the shattered and bloody remains of pieces of wood that once boarded up a doorway.

No obvious weapon--and his clothing isn't particularly deceptive--no heavy bag, or any bag at all actually. He stands slightly above average for a man, but not tall, nearing but falling shy of six feet. Stocky some would say, but he doesn't look like he could break an iron bar or tear down the walls around him.

He does look.. tough.. though. And not in the, that guy could kick your ass, kind of way, in the that guy would be hard to put down kinda way. He looks like troubles aren't the same to him as they are to the next guy. And then there's that--

The rage, like a candle for someone like Imogen, but like a forest fire for others. And it perks up, it flares and bubbles with sudden anticipation when he hears that scrap, feet shifting noiselessly to face the sound.

[Imogen] The square, squat building had once been a warehouse, light filtering from the boarded windows above, cat walks hanging, rusted and in disrepair from the ceiling. The place has been stripped, it is now impossible to tell what function it had fulfilled. A few mattresses, pilled newspaper and the pervasive stink of urine and human sweat indicate it's new designation - a squat.

There's blood on the concrete floor, great streaks of it, dried to rust, and an arterial spray on the wall, only dimly visible in the poor lighting.

The scraping he heard, he sees as he turns his head, is the back office door being opened, the wood catching over the warped floor, or perhaps the floor catching the warped wood. At first, no one is visible in the door way, then a slender figure steps through the threshold.

Her weapon is large in a small hand, but she does not raise it immediately.

Hunter is in the late afternoon light, and the sun is to his back. His features are shadowed, unidentifiable to the woman within, but what light filters through the windows and around the stocky man at the door allows small details of her to become visible, as she steps along the wall - towards him and not away. Red hair, pale skin, dark eyes. Latex gloves on her hands. Worn jeans, a sweater beneath a corduroy jacket worthy of little mention.

Pure breeding so thick it fills the air he breathes. She says nothing, though she does not remain still, moving at an angle toward the door, perhaps seeking a better look at his face. Or a better angle for her shot.

[Hunter] Filth of Humans gets looked at with eyes that show no discernible shock or surprise. Perhaps he just doesn't care about the blood splatters and the urine and sweat and excrement covered newspapers in the corner, or perhaps he has just seen it many times before. Though the squatters have seemingly vacated the premises; their odour lingers on, clinging to the very walls and floors of the structure.

Despite the fact that this man is stocky, when he turns it is silent, when he takes a step forward it is light and impossibly graceful for someone of his build. He doesn't lumber ahead or land his feet heavily. The motions seem effortless, like a cat leaping onto a table from the ground. A stiff dark brown jacket covers his torso, almost as dark as his hair. The jacket could be suede, could be something else. His first thought is that perhaps the residents of this building are still here, and then rather more seriously he considers the fact that it might be whatever made this mess of blood.

A shadow is all he sees, a slither, a wafer, a set of curves and shapes that tell his brain there is a person coming from the office. But it isn't just the shapes, they are just the initial human side of him that responds without question. There is something more basic that makes his nostrils flare and a tingling shift down in waves through his fingertips. Blood and breeding, something he recognises all too well, but whose identity somehow manages to slip away from him. There is a weapon in her hand, it looks too big for her.

Looks can be deceiving.

"Didn't know I called for back up." He says, smirks, buys time.

[Imogen] Her eyes are dark smudges in her face, her hair, the colour of rusted iron. She is completely silent as she moves, so utterly careful that it is clear: if the door had not given her away, he might have been completely unaware of her presence.

He makes a quip - buys some time.

The woman stops, stilling abruptly.

"Look," she says, her voice unAmerican, accented, foreign, "I know what you are and from that, I know you know what I am.

"So how about yeh save the quips and tell me if I should raise my gun or not."

[Hunter] He raises eyebrows, whistles low.

"Well now that depends ye? You keep it down'n I'll keep over here.. you raise it up n'ya best not miss." His own voice something utterly American, Ghetto, Californian.

[Imogen] Imogen does not answer his advice. There are any number of cocky responses, some of which are even justified given her skill with the weapon. 'I don't miss,' perhaps.

Wasted breath. It doesn't matter.

Instead, she doesn't move, doesn't speak for a good half minute. Finally, she speaks again, with almost an impatient wryness to her voice, "Alright, so now what?"

[Hunter] No response, at least not the type of response that he expects. She should be saying she never misses or that she could hit him from half a mile away on a windy day, something cliché like that. But she doesn't and there is just silence, thoughtful silence in this stand-off until she voices the obvious question that is on both their minds.

Alright, so now what?

He slowly pushes his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and steps out of the sunlight streaming through the door. "What happened here?"

The problem is resolved by Hunter ignoring it.

[Imogen] Another long, deliberate silence. Imogen uses such things as a weapon, or perhaps as a simple act of defiance. She is under no obligation to speak, is the inference, one which is supported by her reply.

"I don't answer to strangers."

[Hunter] Eyes, that had moved to survey the room, snap back to her and there's tension in his jaw, tension in his neck. It all relaxes within a matter of seconds. Supposedly she doesn't answer to strangers.

"No, I don't suppose ya' do. Kinfolk creepin' around inside a buildin' thats been all bloodied up.. carryin' guns.. sneakin' up on Garou." A pause and he points a finger at her, gives her something similar to what he would give to Bridget or Quinn or Cordelia if they did something like this.

"That was fuckin' stupid you know right?"

[Imogen] "Was it?" she answers coldly. "Thanks ever so much fer the advice."

A brief pause.

Then she scoffs. "Yeh must be Gaian. Cursed Garou are always ever so much less pedantic. Yeh'd kill me and save yerself the ambiguity."

[Hunter] He raises eyebrows, nods his head like Was it? Oh yeah, fuckin' A it was. But what she says next has him sighing. Pedantic she says, like he even knows what the word means, like he even cares. She talks about Curse Garou like she knows them, talks about Gaians like she understands them better than him.

Silence.

Another sigh.

"Hunter." He says after a long moment simply spent looking at her, and it sounds soft yet slightly frustrated. Bitches. Honestly he has had enough of pure bred kinfolk for a life time. At least this one wields a gun though instead of a blackberry.

[Imogen] (I'm still here, my AIM's died)
to Hunter

[Hunter] [yeah mine went iffy for a bit too]
to Imogen

[Imogen] She is silent after he's spoken, still. Then, finally, there is a soft click, as she thumbs the safety back on her gun.

"Imogen." It's a concession.

"And there's not enough evidence t'know what happened 'ere."

[Hunter] Click, and he knows they have come to an agreement of sorts. He doesn't look relieved, he didn't look particularly stressed prior to this though either.

Imogen she says. He blinks. Her comment about the evidence gets stored in the back of his mind, but ignored for now.

"Imogen? Ain't met no-one named that 'fore. You got a funky accent too, where ya' from?"

[Imogen] "England," the answers are to the point. "Th'name is not tha' common there, either."

[Hunter] "Where's it common?" Are they here about the blood or is this a bar? Sometimes it's hard to tell with folk like these.

[Imogen] She shakes her head, sharply, her gaze moving away to look over the room. She takes careful stock of their surroundings again, her gaze lingering on blood sprays rather than the smears, even as she answers, "Nowhere," she says.

"Shakespeare, at a stretch."

[Hunter] "Hm." He says, rather curiously and then crosses his arms and does likewise to her. Eyes on the room, he seems more interested in the boards though, the broken ones.

"You do this often?"

[Imogen] "I'm a forensic pathologist," she answers, absently, reaching behind herself to slide her gun beneath her jacket. She slips it into the holster at the small of her back, letting her hands fall back to her sides, empty.

"Sometimes, when there's somethin' tha' seems strange or supernatural, I get called t'check it out." She lifts a latex gloved hand to gesture toward the bloody wood. "That fits as strange. The woods shattered, and a few o' the nails ha' been loosened but it looks fresh. And s'a lot o' blood."

She tilts her head, indicating the room, "But I didn't find anythin' worth mentionin' here. No bodies, even." The blood, apparently, was not worth mentioning.

[Hunter] She's a forensic pathologist. Hunter takes in a deep breath and when he exhales he lowers himself towards the ground. He crouches, not sitting but staying upright by pushing his forearms down into his knees. The boards come from the door, something was on the inside and smashed through them. He wonders what could create all this blood, smash through the boards and yet was still small enough to fit through the doorway.

Inside there are blood splatters, but the blood doesn't matter to Imogen. And without a body, the blood is just weird. "Fuckin' strange is right." There's an underlying concern and anger in his voice that doesn't exactly add up with the current situation, like this means more to him than it should. "You check the whole place?" He asks, pushing himself to his feet without touching the boards at all.

[Imogen] She nods, slightly. "Yes. I might check it wi' better lightin', if I thought it worth it, but honestly -" the poor lighting does not truly show her ghosting smirk, though there's a thread of wryness in her tone. "It's probably not."

[Hunter] Back to his full height, back to the almost tall almost stocky man she first walked in on. She says it's probably not worth it, to check over the room again, like she can almost guarantee that there's nothing more to find. Hunter narrows eyes on her a moment but doesn't say anything, just gives a shrug of his shoulders like Well, what can ya do?

He takes one last look around the room, then at Imogen before he carefully steps over the pieces of fallen wood, back out through the door looking for signs of travel on the ground.

"Hey Imogen." He calls out, without looking. "You think there's somethin' worth findin' elsewhere? I gotta keep these streets safe man." He half mutters the second part to himself.

[Imogen] Hunter shrugs and turns to leave. Imogen is stripping off her gloves when he calls back to her. "Look around you," she calls back, pitching her voice to carry rather than truly raising it. "There's always something. If yeh're really bored, yeh could always head north."

The hive is north. The kinswoman pays attention.

[Hunter] She speaks and he actually stops, he actually listens, he actually thinks about what she has said to him. It gives him pause, makes him twitch. But is that her words or is that his moon approaching? Fists curl at his sides, but not entirely clenching, more like fingertips touching lightly up against his palms. She can see tension in his shoulders, his neck, in the way he stands staring into space.

He turns around.

"Oh yeah North? You wanna come with?" He asks, joking, incredulous yet some how almost serious. "Nah, North ain't me. Boredom ain't me." Gives her a smile, "Not yet, least. Gotta keep ma own house in order for I go fuckin' up anyone elses."

And she knows what's North, Hunter can figure that much out. There aren't many Kinfolk who would even want to know about that, or if they did know they sure as hell wouldn't be wanting to talk about it.

[Imogen] There's a brief pause. Imogen folds her latex gloves into one, slender hand.

"Try around where East 51st becomes Hyde Park. There've been some strange deaths 'round there and I've not had a chance t'check it out."

[Hunter] "51st'n'Hyde.. " He lifts his hand, scratching absently over his chin a singular time. He takes a few steps back towards the door so they aren't calling out at each other from such a distance, though truth be told the distance isn't that great. "My pack The Vanguard runs this territory for the sept, me n'a rotagar named Joey Oliver. We been' gone for a few months though.."

A pause and he's serious when he looks at her expectantly and says.

"I'd like to know what's goin' on in ma' own damn house Imogen. I ain't got a problem with sharin' the load neither. But I gotta know, ands I gotta know first."

"You gotta' number Imogen?"

[Imogen] Imogen exhales a breath. "Look," she says quietly. "You all die or leave. I can't keep up. Nor do I ha' any care to watch the boundaries o' the city and try and keep track o' which pack watches which and then try and keep track as yer members change and you lose or gain territory.

"If I find anythin' of note, I inform the Fenrir Jarl. You ha' a law, I believe about territory. I imagine she will obey it. You'll find out, if you're still here."

[Hunter] He frowns, and the breath he lets out isn't exactly one of relaxation. She talks about him not being here, like he's going to die before she can even get his god damn number down and it frustrates Hunter to no end. But it's not exactly a topic one can argue with a kinfolk on. They do die, they do disappear.

"The fuck ya' informin' kora for? Why not Rory? If ya' find shit in bronze, ya let me know. That's all I'm tell'n ya' to do."

His right fist curls.

"If you wanna tell Kora too, go ahead. I don't give a fuck. But you tell me."

[Imogen] The kinswoman is steadfast, unafraid and immutable. Her gaze is on him, unflinchingly.

"I've told yeh why I won't do it, I've told yeh what I'll do so you get th'same results. If yeh're alive and here, yeh'll find out about it. But I won't waste time searchin' fer Garou to gi' them personal service. If yeh want to know what's in yer territory so badly, you look."

[Hunter] The reaction isn't.. pleasant.. Hunters jaw is clenched to the point where Imogen might start worrying that he's going to break a tooth. His lips are a concise flat line, emerald eyes unchanging, unblinking. It is humorous really, this cliath Ahroun, this god damn Gnawer thinking he can tell the Doctor of Death what to do, thinking she would be cowed by his rage and fierce physical presence.

But he does, and he takes a few more steps forward, tips his head to the side and looks at her like she's lost her god damn mind.

"If I'm alive? The fuck you talkin' about? I'm here, I ain't fuckin' goin' any time soon. And you don't gotta fuckin' search nowhere I'll fuckin' give ya' a number, give ya' a fuckin' address if that's what it takes."

"But you will fuckin' tell me these things, I don't want the fuckin' Fenrir god damn Jarl comin' to me and tell me what's going on in my own god damn neighbourhood."

He's pointing his left finger at her now, his right hand still balled.

[Imogen] She is still, she is silent.

"Excuse me," she says, "I'll gather my things and leave. I'll enter only fer work, and leave promptly."

She waits a moment, gives him time for a reaction. Give her this - she does not turn her back on the angry Garou until she is secure in her safety. But if he does show no sign of violence, she turns away, walking back toward the back office.

[Hunter] He sighs, groans even. It's incredibly frustrated, incredibly lacking in patience. But he isn't stupid, at least not on the inside. Perhaps.

"Jesus fuckin' christ." He says to himself when she starts heading back into the office.

"So you're fuckin' telling me that you'd rather not fuckin' help at all than do the one god damn thing I need you to do?" He calls out while he's heading towards the office.

[Imogen] "I am telling you," she says as she sinks to a crouch in front of a brief case, finding a baggy and dropping her gloves into it, "that I am not yours to order about. And that sometimes I do things in ways that may not quite fit in yer purview, but in the eight years I ha' been here worked quite well."

She gets to her feet, and looks at him. "And if yeh don't want to accept that, then I am telling you that I would rather not help at all, yes."

Her eyebrow arches, "Are you going to let me by?"

[Hunter] He stands in the doorway to the office, leans against the frame of it and sighs. The sigh curls his lips towards the end of it, pushes the corners up, he can't help it. The sight of the stroppy little stag telling him what time of day it is seems to make him giddy or amused, maybe he's scared and this is how he shows it?

Unlikely.

Is he going to let her by?

Maybe.

For the moment though he just stands there and looks at her, eyes running over her read hair, her pale skin, dark eyes. Even if she didn't have the breeding, he would still find something pleasing about looking at her.

"Compromise." He offers, and waits.

[Imogen] There is nothing about the kinswoman that seems to go towards intimidation. She is, for all appearances, outwardly calm. She has not raised her voice, she has not uttered a single epithet, though he has cursed himself blue. She has not even changed the speed of her speech.

Her tension is betrayed at the edges of her. Her jaw, the set of her mouth. Her spine, always straight has gone a little farther past the edge of neutral to something sharper. She faces him steadily. He is an Ahroun, accustomed, likely to the cowering of humans and most kinfolk. The easy intimidation.

She regards him with more audacity than some Garou. Unflinchingly, directly and without hesitation.

The tendon in her jaw moves slightly as he offers compromise but does not elaborate. Several seconds pass before her free hand moves in a simple, wordless gesture. Go on.

[Hunter] She isn't scared of him, or if she is then she's a master of deception, a master of hiding her emotions. This says there are two possible reasons for this to Hunter Matthews. Either she's incredibly stupid, or she's a god damn robot assassin or something. He isn't sure which of the two, but it can't be both.

He doesn't let her past, she doesn't seek to get past, instead she asks him to continue.. asks him to elaborate on this compromise of his. Of course, she doesn't say that though, no, that would require too much effort. She just gives him a wave of her hand like, if you must.

"You ain't mine, I concede that." He begins. "This here's mine though, what you find, where you find it." And his voice has lowered into something of a deep husky growl, contrasting his previous out bursts of uncontrolled Rage. He simmers now where previously he burned.

"The peeps out there, they my responsibility, ain't talkin' folks like you or folks like me. The regulars, the ones ain't got no way to save em' selves."

"Mine." He repeats, "Not yours, not Kora's. Mine." He sighs, rubs a hand over his face before letting it fall slack at his waist again. The other still pushes into the frame of the door where he leans.

"So you don't wanna be goin' outta' yer way to be doin' nothin' personal for nobody you ain't know too good. I get it, hey I can dig that. But there's gotta' be a little give I mean, what I need from ya'.. "

A pause while the sentence falls away.

"What bout a drop point, ain't need no contact, ain't need ta' do nothin' cept leave me the msg. Can fuckin' use an email if ya' want, a god damn web page, somethin', I don't have ta' be able ta' contact ya'." He sighs. "I just gotta' know Imogen, I can't hear about this shit from the Jarl, I just can't."

"I'm out here, same as you, just tryna' keep my streets safe, help a guy out ye?"

[Imogen] Imogen is quiet for a long time. She carries a solid steel brief case, heavy in her hand.

"Gi' me the freedom to work in yer territory without yer lecturing, to do as I see fit to protect the veil, and tell you when I see fit, and I'll take yer number.

"I'll not report in and get permission fer things I've done fer years, nor will I spend every blessed minute fighting you or tryin' to get you to see my way.

"I don't care where yer territory is, frankly. I don't do this for you or Kora or to help the Nation. What the Sept does and decides and how you full-bloods feel about half-bloods are inconsequential.

"Let me do what I do, and I'll tell you when there's somethin' too big fer me to take care of."

Her mouth draws to a thin line. "Otherwise, I'll simply do my human job here and keep myself away from hurting yer sense of ownership."

A pause, before she adds, "Yeh don't know me from Eve, but I promise you, I've earned the latitude."

[Hunter] He talks of protection, not of his kind or her kind but of human kind, she talks of ownership and pride and all that other good blood and guts nonsense that she thinks she sees in him. And maybe it's there, maybe he just misses it. Either way, he nods after a brief time spent staring at her thinking and he sucks in a huge breath through his nostrils, pushes himself out of the doorway and steps to the side to allow her through.

"Good enough for me Imogen."

His tone sounds sincere in some ways and like it is not at all good enough for him in other ways. He holds out his hand to her when she starts to exit the office, if it's gripped he holds it there.

"My experience might well be narrow Imogen, but it's very very deep. Somethin' ta remember."

[Imogen] He offers her his hand. She pauses part way through the door, then reluctantly, reaches out to take it, her grip firm and cool in a shake. The way her fingers release quickly, suggests she would have let go almost immediately, but he holds fast and speaks.

Imogen's mouth moves in a twist, her hand trapped in his. There is a firm, subtle pulling that suggests he does not hold her there willingly. "I'll keep that in mind, shall I?" her question is rhetorical. "Yer number, please."

He tells it to her, or gives it to her on a card or something - she does not write it down.

"Thank-you." If he releases her hand, she turns away, walking through the bloodied warehouse without glancing back.

[Hunter] Her hand wants to escape his grasp, and he finds no enjoyment in holding her hand there longer than she wishes it to be. So he releases, as soon as his words are said and as her reply is forming on her own lips.

The number is written down, given to her on a piece of paper that he tears out of a small notebook. The book goes back inside his jacket, the number gets handed to her.

"See ya' round Imogen." He says, but he says it quietly as she's leaving the building. He doesn't head out as soon as she is gone, he remains there, searching in vain. He calls pack mates, he calls friends, none of it helps. He goes home empty handed.. well.. not entirely.