Very Little Comfort

[Imogen Slaughter] Outside it is cold but not freezing. Winter still has Chicago in its grip, but overall, it is faring better then most of Eastern US, currently buried in snow.

The bar is filled with a Thursday night crowd. Nowhere near as impressive as the Friday or Saturday night crowd, but occupied enough that getting to the bar is a winding path around filled tables and standing, chatting patrons.

Imogen's hair is a flash of red amid the darker jackets and shirts of much taller men. Her body slips between narrow spaces to reach the bar, and lays her forearms on it, she catches the bartender's attention without much effort. She leans forward to speak to him, one foot resting on the footrest, pushing herself up to bridge the distance a little more, give her voice a little more carry to the din.

The 'tender frowns, then glances at his watch before shrugging, saying something inaudible in the red-haired woman's direction. Whatever he says makes her eyes narrow, the edges of her mouth turn down. He asks a question, cupping his hand to focus his voice. She makes a brief hand gesture that says without words, might as well, pulling money from a wallet she keeps in an inner pocket of her jacket. A few dollar bills are dropped down, and soon after, a beer of indiscriminate quality is thumped down, the bottle, a dark and dusty brown.

[Seth] The pool tables in the back of the seedy bar have drawn a small crowd. Actually, it's just a group large enough to attract the eye momentarily. And it's only one table, the only working table. The only table being worked. There is the familiar CRACK of one ball striking another, followed by the heavy thump of the second ball falling into a pocket. Everyone knows that sound. The sound that follows it, however, is familiar to only a few. It's the sound of Seth Cohens mouth.

"Damn, did you see that? Man, my game is really coming along. Seems like only twenty minutes ago you boys were killing me on this table, and here I am making the big come-back!"

He paces casually around the table as he postures verbally. The lean kin's eyes never leave the table, though. The group assembled around him is getting restless, some mumbling to one another with their gazes fixed on Seths opponents. The two men are, as most of the patrons, simple working-class guys. But they stand out by their dress; these men wear collared polo shirts stretched across slightly bulging stomachs. Instead of jeans, they wear thick khakis. Casual brown shoes instead of work boots. They are supervisors. Wherever they work, they are slightly higher on the totem pole than sixty percent of the employees. They have more disposable income and, as a rule, are typically so impressed with their minimal amount of authority that they honestly believe their own hype.

Perfect targets for a sandbag play.

[Imogen Slaughter] The sound of his voice is not quite familiar, but it is enough to make her turn and glance at the game. Her eyes narrow slightly on the table, and its players, moving from one to one to one. A copper eyebrow arches as dark eyes light on Seth, posturing and gloating, then move toward the unhappy blue collar supervisors.

From there, her gaze flicks toward the empty raised area in the corner - what almost counts as a stage, but only barely. The signs had indicated there was live music tonight, but it is already late and there is no sign of it yet.

Still, she has her beer to drink. She sinks back onto one of the stools and picks it up, her eyes on the pool game.

[Seth] Another ball is dropped smoothly, and Seth continues berating the other players. "I tell you guys, I've been thinking alot about what you were saying earlier. And you were right..."

Again he slides around the table, tracing imaginary lines from the cue ball to each of its potential targets. The neon beer signs surrounding the playing area cast the spectators in a bizarre, almost nauseating, mixture of garish colors. Even so his opponents expressions are not difficult to read. They are humiliated, enraged, and ready to make some noise about it. This does not stop the Strider kin. He lines up his next shot expertly.

"Guys from podunk towns...like me...we have no business in this big, scary city. I mean, my God look at the potential to lose all your money to some slick hustler. Here I am, practically a beginner and mentally crippled by way of my birthplace...just running this table all over you two pool sharks." Another ball drops.

"Jesus, imagine if you were just some poor...what was it? Hick? Anyway, if you were some poor hick like me and a really badass pool player just came along and took you for...how much is that on the table? We're up to four, right? Yeah...four hundred dollars. Can you imagine how pissed your wives would be? Man, I'm lucky I met you guys. I mean, starting this whole thing off I was terrible. You know, I think playing with you guys has really brought my game up." Another ball.

"Seriously, you two must have rubbed off on me. Or maybe I'm just a pool natural. One of those Id-jit Save-ants, I reckon." His voice drips with contempt. He stares directly at his opponents as he drops the final ball. "And now I'm bored. I believe I'll take my money and have a few drinks. Call yourselves a cab."

The money is swept from the table as he speaks, a single twenty dropped on the green felt with his last statement. And then he is making his way to the bar, seemingly oblivious of the two men staring knives into his back. They will almost certainly be waiting for him outside later.

[Imogen Slaughter] Seth turns and walks away toward the bar - but more accurately, he walks toward Imogen. He has the easy arrogance, perhaps, to be accustomed to a woman being flattered as he does that. There is no sign of that now, in the kinswoman's face. Imogen merely watches him approach, her gaze flicking behind him to the men staring daggers at his back.

"You'd better leave through the backdoor," she advises without compassion, lifting her bottle to drink deeply of her brew, setting it down on the bar.

Her feet do not reach the ground on the bar stool. She rests them on the footrest instead, the heels of her modest footwear hooked around the fake brass.

She is not extravagantly dressed. Dark-washed jeans and a black camisole beneath a corduroy jacket that she wears despite the warmth of the room. No jewellery. She carries no handbag.

[Seth] The bartender doesn't speak to Seth, he simply points and raises a questioning eyebrow. The younger man nods as he slides onto a stool seperated from Imogens by one seat. Evidently there is an understanding between Seth and the nameless 'tender. When he finally speaks, it is in loud response to her dispassionate advice. "Or what? You think the Izod Brothers back there scare me? Scariest thing about those two is their hairlines."

His drink arrives, a short glass filled with a mix of whiskey and coke, garnished with a slice of lime. Seth nods his thanks to the 'tender. Once the man is clear of their conversation, he leans in and half-whispers to the redhead. "Ok, but seriously I'm definitely going out the back. Did you see how pissed those guys are? I wish I could see the looks on their faces after they wait on me out front in thirty-degree weather for like, two hours. It's going to be epic."

[Imogen Slaughter] She turns her head slightly to broaden the space between them - and she still hears him clearly enough. She arches an eyebrow at him as he speaks, her gaze flicking asexually over him.

"Bit of a wanker, aren't you just?"

[Seth] "I don't know what that means, but I bet I'd be hurt if I did." He smirks and meets her gaze levelly. "Look, it didn't start off like that. I was just intending to play a friendly game. But then those assholes got too deep in the cups and the next thing I know I'm taking all their money. Sometimes these things happen."

There is a brief moment of merciful silence as he takes a few sips from his drink. But nothing good lasts forever. "I guess you're like most everyone else I've met in this weird family. They think everyone should be all 'noble causes' and 'for the greater good' and all that shit..."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's expression registers skepticism. "Trying to say yeh swindled them accidentally is that it? And th'lettin' them win the first few times, that was coincidental, was it?"

The questions are not really questions at all, mere modes with which she made her points.

He continues and she smirks, the expression soon hidden by her raised bottle, "oh no, by all means, take them fer all they're worth. S'the gloating afterwards that I disapprove of. S'unseemly."

[Seth] "They called me a hick. A hick. I couldn't just let that go." The remainder of his drink is quaffed, inspiring another round of improvisational sign-language between himself and the bartender. This ends with a fresh beverage for both of the kin at the bar.

"So what's your deal? Do you do whatever they say, or are you like me?"

[Imogen Slaughter] There is a pause as she debates the question, or perhaps debates taking offence to it.

She lifts her bottle and drinks deeply, draining it the last few swallows. "They don't often tell me t'do things," she says, "and if I intend to do it already, I do it. If I disagree wi' it, I don't."

Her mouth twists, "Mostly, I do things without being told to at all, and I'm sure it's seen as loyalty."

She drains the beer, glancing behind her at the fresh one already ready for her. A momenet later, she picks it up.

[Seth] Moments pass as he considers her words. His drink is swirled thoughtfully in his hand, the ice cubes clinking sharply against glass with each twist of his wrist. Finally he takes a long sip before shrugging. "I don't get it. If you do something that serves their purpose, whether they tell you to or not...I mean, what's your take? What do you get out of it? Because from what I hear they're on the losing side of a nasty fight that's full of noble causes and self-sacrifice. So casting your lot in with them is basically suicidal, right?"

[Imogen] There is a brief pause.

"And what do you think will happen, if they lose?" the question is simple, quiet. She takes another swig of her beer.

[Seth] His answer is equally simple. "I don't know. End of the world?"

[Imogen] His answer provokes a faint smirk. "That would be the best case scenario. I imagine the reality would be just a little more - twisted."

[Seth] There is another slight shrug in response. "Maybe. Reality's already pretty twisted from what I've seen. And that's just the normal day-to-day stuff, that doesn't even include the weird things I've seen the past few years."

Again he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a deep swallow, grimacing a bit at the taste once he's returned his drink to the bars counter. "The world's a fucked up place and getting more fucked up by the minute. You don't have to have a foot in the dark side like we do to know that. Just watch the evening news. We, collectively, are fucked the world over. So why bother running headlong into the abyss? If the world goes truly sour beyond our ability to cope, it won't happen for decades. Not our problem."

[Imogen] She watches him while he speaks - there's a certain directness to her gaze, an unwavering regard that seems to find no discomfort in looking at someone without a flinch, nor care too much for the discomfort that might cause.

"Tell me something," she says as she tilts her bottle to regard the level within. Around them, conversation hums and roars. Another group has picked up a game on the pool table. The clack of the tip meeting the ball, and infrequent cheers or more frequent cries of dismay dot their conversation, as if it were less serious.

"The first thing you said when we met and yeh found out what I was, was that yeh preferred to stay on the outside. So clearly, yeh are not asking fer your own edification. What do you think you're going to get from this little conversation?"

[Seth] "I do prefer to stay on the outside. What I'm trying to find out is why you, or anyone else, would feel any differently than me. So whether you believe it or not, this actually is for my own fucking 'edification'." He's actually worked himself up a bit and has to force his voice back to proper conversational level.

"Look, I've met exactly five people like us since I found out. That includes you. The other four were nice enough people, but they were sheep. When I tried to ask them about what this all means their answers were practically rote, like they all came from the same book. You are the first one I've met who actually seems like she thinks for herself. So if you're as sharp as you seem, I want to know why you do what you do." Another long pull drains his glass. He spits a half-melted cube of ice back into the empty glass and sets it on the bar before adding:

"Because maybe there's something I've been missing all this time that you understand."

[Imogen] She listens while he speaks, though when his voice had risen, an eyebrow arched, in silent censure, or perhaps reminder. He lowers his voice, and still, she listens.

When he's done, she takes another drink.

"I'm not th'example for you," she says, setting her bottle down, near empty. "Because everything I do I do fer reasons tha' have no place in dogma or whatever th'stereotypical reasons tha' might be given."

She pauses, but she is not done. The moment is pregnant, portended.

"Some half-bloods," she says, "ha' a loyalty to their families. They've grown up as a part of a Sept, as a son or daughter, brother or sister o' a full-blood. T'not do anything is to abandon those who die or have died to keep them safe. They believe - correctly - that without them, the next generation will not be born, and with every death, the importance of every birth becomes more poignant.

"Some do it as a challenge. We're not often well thought of, half-bloods. Thin skinned, blood easily spilled, a target rather than a weapon. So they try to prove themselves as better than they are seen as. Better than something weak. Better than a mare, or a stallion."

She picks up her bottle and drains it again.

"Others want nothing to do with anything. They'll live out their human lives, hoping never to be called upon."

[Seth] He watches her, hanging on every word she speaks. It is the most still and silent he's been in any social encounter since he came to this city. He listens as she lays out the most basic framework of Kin existence. But she offers no words of comfort, nor of wisdom. She simply states facts. And he is visibly disappointed by those facts. He frowns, waving away the approaching bartender so the conversation can continue safely.

"My father was...whatever you called it. Full-blooded. He was in town just long enough to buy a quick fuck with my mom, then he was gone. So I've got no family ties to this, no real ones. Don't care what they think about me. I guess I kind of hoped there was some great purpose to what I am...what we are. But the fact is there's not. So I was right all along: There's no real reason for me to give a shit about them, or their war."

[Imogen] "That's up to you," the answer is mild. "But th'fact o' the matter is, if the war goes badly, there isn't a single cursed one who cares if yeh've been involved or not. Even if the war is going well, you're a target.

"The bloke that was with us the other night - do you know why he could pick yeh out of the crowd?"

[Seth] "Yeah, the ones I met before told me it was breeding. Like we're some sort of showdog. Apparently mine's pretty strong. Why, can other things smell it too?"

[Imogen] Her mouth twists, "Garou ha' breeding as well, so they are as much show-dogs as you or I. Full-bloods can sense it - including full-bloods who are cursed. That fight fer the other side. And they will not stop t'ask you if you are a part of things, before involving you themselves."

[Seth] "Great. So it's like being drafted, only you don't get a gun or a helmet. Thanks, Dad." He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "The one's who you say stay uninvolved...what usually happens to them?"

[Imogen] Her mouth twists faintly. "I don't know," she answers. "They stay uninvolved. If they're lucky, they live out their lives ignorantly of what goes on around them."

[Seth] He stands up from his seat and tosses a few ill-gotten bills on the bar. "Just when I thought life couldn't possibly suck more, I find out I have a big, supernatural bullseye on my back. I need to get out of here. These walls are feeling just a little too tight right now. Thanks for answering my questions. Might not have been what I was hoping for, but at least you were honest."

[Imogen] Imogen does not move as he gets to his feet, regarding him with an even gaze.

"If it helps, the bulls-eye has always been there - you are in no more danger than you were when you were unaware. You may even be in less fer knowing."

[Seth] "Somehow that is of very little comfort to me. Thanks for giving a half-assed try though. See you around."

And with that he makes his exit, walking first towards the front entrance before remembering what was probably out there. He flashes Imogen a wry grin, coupled with a wink and a shrug. He then does an about-face and heads to the back, slipping through a fire exit that has apparently never been rigged with an alarm. Seedy bars...