Nothing Ever Gets Personal.

[Imogen Slaughter] The cafe is glossy and bright, white formica surfaces and a polished bright floor. She sits in a corner, facing the door, a woman with red hair, pale skin, and dark eyes.

A cup of coffee sits in front of her, but nothing else. She had given him no description, but he can find her anyway. The blood of her family pumps through her veins, flooding beneath her skin so thick it is nearly a scent.

They had not talked long - the cornish woman who had answered the phone was reticent and reserved in her replies, and resigned in her agreement to meet. So too, was the comment, in lieu of a description.

"I imagine you'll know me when you see me."

She is right. Well acquainted with her breeding is Imogen.

What might be surprising is that she appears to recognize him as well, her gaze fixing on Michael as he enters the cafe, watching him as he approaches. She is more direct than most, particular in the face of his rage, her standing as a kinfolk. Still and steady as he approaches, her posture impeccable in the high backed chair.

"Michael Carrol, I presume."

[Michael Carroll] There is no mistaking him when he enters. Even though he had (likewise) not given a description over the phone, Michaels bearing alone marks him as a Garou to Imogen. He stands motionless, framed in the cafe's door for a moment as he searches the room with murky green eyes. Other customers give him just a bit more space than they would give the average patron when he passes them on his way to Imogens table. The small woman greets him, a slight nod is offered with his reply.

"That I am, and you can call me Michael. Thank you fer meetin' with me Doctor Slaughter. Would I be too forward to be callin' you Imogen?" The lilt of his voice is unmistakably Irish. Nearly every "r" sound he utters seems to carry on an extra second or two. It's the kind of accent bored housewives romanticize in their private moments, imagining some square-jawed rogue who sweeps them away to an emerald paradise while their doughy husbands remain behind with the kids and the mortgage...

[Imogen Slaughter] There is a brief, deliberate pause. She is well dressed - though it was twenty of eight, she appears to have come from the office, and likely a high quality office at that. Slacks slide slim over her legs, she wears a suit jacket, though the sleeves have been rolled up, revealing slender forearms. A watch is worn, fashionably loose at her wrist, stainless steel and unscratched.

"Most call me Doctor," she says, finally. "Or Doc." It is a deliberate choice.

Her hair is pulled back, woven into a braid which is twisted at the nape of her neck. Though the coiffure is carefully done, strands have come loose, strands she pushes back from her eyes to tuck behind her ear.

She tilts her head slightly toward the coffee counter, "Did yeh want t'get a coffee?"

If he does, she waits for him to return, if he doesn't, she gestures for him to join her.

"What can I do fer you?"

[Michael Carroll] He returns with his coffee promptly and takes the offered seat, then very casually produces a small flask from his coats inner pocket. The dark contents are added with little regard for who may be watching as he speaks. "I'd offer you a bit, but I'm thinking we haven't reached that sort of trust yet."

A quick wink and a smile punctuate his statement as the booze is returned to his pocket. "You know, on the way here from Ireland I heard a few tales about a red-headed Kinwoman here in Chicago. There was a lot o' debate about her name, but the younger ones took to callin' her Slaughter. The way those stories go I expected you to be about a foot taller with razors fer teeth."

The (now Irish) coffee is half-drained in one mighty gulp. "Anyway, passin' through Aberdeen I was told I had a very, very distant cousin in Chicago and that I should look her up since I was headed this way. I was hopin' you might be able to give me some insight as to the state o' things here in town. I know there's a war on, but the one who told me about it was shy with the details."

[Imogen Slaughter] She is not an easy woman to thaw. His friendly smile and joke about the alcohol merely results in an arched eyebrow. "I never knew alcohol required any sort of trust."

Of course, the irony being, were he to offer it now, she would refuse. It was merely the inconsistency which rankled.

She picks up her coffee cup, and sips, her eyes lifting to him as he mentions tales of a woman called 'Slaughter'. A tension flickers across her brow, along her jawline. In the end, he makes a joke on her appearance, and moves on; she never picks this particular thread of conversation back up.

"Well," she says, when he's fully done, setting her coffee cup down with a click. "Jesus," she remarks without intensity. "If yeh ha' a relative in Aberdeen tha' says you ha' a relative here, you're likely talkin' 10 generations back or more. Rather fond o' their genealogy, the Scots."

She picks up the coffee again, but does not sip. "There's a hive o' cursed ones," it's an old-world tradition, not speaking the name of the damned aloud, lest you call them down upon them. It is doubtlessly familiar to him, as the idea of saying 'Black Spiral Dancers' is as startling. "Close enough fer lack o' comfort. They were quiet fer - well. Years, but they've begun t'rebuild. Send out feelers. City's always been bad, and yeh'd need to talk wi' a fullblood to know fer sure if it's worse, but fer whatever reason, a state o' war was called."

She takes a sip of coffee. The tension in her brow has not entirely faded, but it is nearly indiscernible. "There's a pack called th'Last Watch," she says, "and I believe one o' yer tribe is stayin' there. Patrick. He can gi' yeh an update on th'tribe."

[Michael Carroll] "If you think the Scots are bad you ought to meet my mother. Her concern with tracking down every possible relative..no matter how thin the blood connection...it borders on obssessive. A very proud and proper woman is the Lady Carroll, and she wants to be sure all the kin know it." A mock toast is lifted at the name of his mother, closed with another long pull from the coffee cup. "Even if she has to stalk them herself."

He leans back in his chair and casts a quick glance around the cafe to ensure no one is close enough to eavesdrop. Not that the average person would have any idea what he and the red-headed doctor are talking about. "I've spoken with a Walker by the name of Owen DiTerizzi, he's extended an offer to pack with himself and a few others. Have you ever heard of him?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's copper and well-shaped eyebrow arches. "I hope you do not take this the wrong way," she says, mildly, "but please, keep yer mother away from me."

She speaks quietly - there is little concern that she will be overheard. "I've not, but I'm not always privy to the comings and goings o' the full-bloods. I imagine there are at least a few I never meet."

[Michael Carroll] "Don't worry, she'd never leave Killarney. There are far too many social functions for her to attend to. Excuse me a moment, I'm out of coffee. Would you care for another?" He rises from his seat and disappears just long enough to retrieve another coffee for himself, as well as one for the good doctor if she so indicates. Again he adds a splash of dark liquor to his coffee, this time offering the flask to Imogen. "A bit o' Mothers Milk then?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She glances at the coffee mug, then nods, once. "The Ethiopian, please," for all her lack of warmth, Imogen appears to be unfailingly polite.

He returns, offering her a slosh of whisky from his flask, and she shakes her head, "Thank-you," she says, meaning, 'thanks anyway'.

She drinks the coffee black, and takes a brief sip before speaking again. "Have yeh heard of the Brotherhood, then?"

[Michael Carroll] He shrugs when she declines the whiskey, simply adding her share to his own drink. There is a slight shake of his head in response to her question, his brow arching curiously. "I haven't. Is that another pack here in town?"

[Imogen Slaughter] "It's a building," she says, "owned by half bloods, with a second floor specifically fer those o'the Nation. Place to sleep, eat, wash yer clothes, wash yerself.

"Be sure t'ask a full blood t'tell you where it is."

[Michael Carroll] "You don't know the location?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth twists slightly - it is important to note it's not a smile, "I do," she says. "But I am not takin' responsibility fer tellin' you where it is. I'll let a full-blood do that.

"Same wi' yer holy place."

[Michael Carroll] Again his brow lifts, his hand brushing across the stubbled surface of his shaved head. "I can respect that policy. Have there been problems with information getting out to the wrong people?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyes move briefly to his hand as it pushes over the shaved curve of his skull, then down again, to his face and eyes. "Not that I've heard o'. Personally, I'd hate t'be the first."

[Michael Carroll] His expression becomes distant as he nods, his eyes fixing on his left hand as he drags it idly across the surface of the table they share. The gold wedding band he wears causes a quiet scraping sound with the motion. "It almost certainly would not end well for you. The People are less than forgiving when it comes to such offenses."

[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyebrow stirs, but does not quite arch. "That wasn't precisely my concern."

[Michael Carroll] Again he nods though his eyes remain fixed on the table. "Sure and there are plenty o' consequences in that scenario. Attack on the 'holy place', on individual packs...kin used as bait for ambushes...those the sort o' concerns yer speakin' about? Or are there other dangers I'm missin' here?"

[Imogen Slaughter] A beat. "I fail to see what difference that makes."

[Michael Carroll] His brow knits in visible confusion as he finally returns his gaze to her face. "I'm only trying to assess the risks I'm to be facin' in the city. If you have knowledge o' some sorta danger that I'm not aware of, it makes a world o' difference to me. Why else would I be askin'?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, "It is foolish for a half-blood who has no way o' identifyin' is it cursed or is it not, t'start t'gi' away Gaian secrets, and direct the stranger to a holy place and a place o' refuge. I imagine I had the opportunity t'do so a few hundred times by now, and I've refused each time, and as far as I know, I've never unwittingly spoken wi' a cursed full-blood.

"But it only takes once."

A shrug. "It's only caution. Something most o' the Nation would do better to apply more frequently, I think.

[Michael Carroll] The corner of his mouth lifts upward in something resembling a grin. "I get the feeling that gettin' any information from you would be an excercise in futility for even the most silver-tongued. Your caution is duly noted and appreciated, Doctor. Seein' as how I haven't quite proven myself trustworthy to you, I'll leave the questions alone for now. Have you got any for me?"

[Imogen Slaughter] Michael finds the kinswoman meeting his eyes, "Those who consider themselves silver tongued rarely are."

He speaks again - asks her if she has any questions. There's a pause. "D'yeh want to meet yer tribesmate?"

[Michael Carroll] "Yes, I would. Could you arrange a meeting?" Probably a silly question considering she raised the point, but it must be asked regardless. His second coffee is nearly finished, but not before he can add another nip to the cup. Just a little extra to help fight the cold outside.

[Imogen Slaughter] She nods, once. "Got a mobile?"

[Michael Carroll] "Not yet, but I'm staying at the Regency until I can make more permanent arrangements for lodging." Drawing a pen from the same pocket that hides his flask, the young Fianna quickly jots down a number on a beverage napkin. A bit cliche', really, but sometimes the old ways are the best. "If I'm not in I have message service."

[Imogen Slaughter] She smirks faintly. "How quaint," she says, picking up the napkin and glancing at the number. "Alright. I'll gi' yeh a ring to work up a time to bring yeh to where he stays." She drains her coffee and gets to her feet, reaching for the back of the chair to retrieve her coat and purse.

"I'm sure you'll view this wi' some irony," she says, mildly, "but is there anything else yeh were interested in?"

[Michael Carroll] His smile is broad and genuine when he replies with a shake of his head. "No thank you, Doctor. I don't want t' hold you up any longer than I already have. Though I do appreciate the irony, as well as your willingness to speak wi' me t'night. If you have any need for me, for whatever reason, feel free to call. Distant, barely related family has to stick together, right?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She pauses, adjusting the strap of her handbag up her arm, before stepping forward, closing some of the distance so their words cannot be heard beyond the table.

"Look," she says quietly, mildly, "yeh should know - I'm not particularly one fer family. Even close family. So distant family -" she merely lets the sentence trail off, a shrug finishing the sentence. "If yeh need something to do wi' the war, yeh can ask it o' me, and if it's reasonable, I'll help yeh out, as I would any Garou. And chances are, I won't be needing you."

Her mouth turns down at the edges. "It's nothing personal. I'll ring you in a few days." The juxtaposition of the final statement and the rest of what she's said is sharp.

"Goodnight," with that, she steps back.

[Michael Carroll] He watches her go, never losing the smile despite the dismissive nature of her statement. The band on his ring finger is twisted absently by his right hand. When he finally speaks, she's likely too far away to hear. "It's never anything personal with you, I'm sure o' it. Goodnight, Doctor Slaughter."