[Michael Carroll] He leans against a low wall near the heater, his back to the city and his arms across his chest. Imogen speaks of her home, or at least her place of presumable birth, and Michael nods. Another icy blast of pre-Spring wind cuts across the balcony, causing a ripple of goosebumps across the Irishmans light flesh. Though he does not flinch from the cold, he does grimace a bit. The glowing cherry of Imogens cigarette draws his gaze; when he speaks, it is to the smoking bit of tobacco.
"Killarneys just over ten thousand strong. Suppose we're th' country mice in this story." The sound of the wind is punctuated by the noises of traffic from below, then overpowered by a thunderous round of applause from inside the ballroom. "Someone must've won some sort o' humanitarian award in there. Or they're congratulating themselves on ruling the city. How long have y' been here in Chicago, Doctor?"
[Imogen] Her mouth twists, pulling the cigarette free from her lips to turn her head and exhale smoke out toward the city. "I doubt I count as one anymore," she says. Country mouse. There are symptoms of that, ones he can see, ones he can hear. Her poise, and her accent. She does not quite have Queen's English, but it's not the Cornwall brogue either. "It's been almost twenty years."
He asks how long she's been in Chicago. Her gaze moves slightly toward him, sidelong, gaze narrowing slightly. "Eight years," she answers. "Give 'r take. We playing twenty questions, then?"
[Michael Carroll] He chuckles, his eyes moving to the glass doors they recently passed through. He watches the crowd inside as he speaks. "Don't worry, Doctor, I'm still honorin' m' promise. I don't intend t' dig too deeply. And, if it makes y' feel better, y' can feel free t' ask a few questions yourself."
The music begins once more, the stringed quartet playing a happy tune that encourages goodwill and conversation from the partygoers. They break into small groups, smiling and shaking hands and always unaware of the monster standing right outside. "I only ask because out o' all the Nation I've met here, you're among those who've been here th' longest. And you're sharp as a tack, I don't have t' dig deep t' know that much. Have y' ever found it strange that so many with such strong breeding are drawn t' this city? It's everywhere we look."
[Imogen] She cuts him a glance. "Half-bloods can't sense breedin'," she says. "So it's not foremost on m'mind. As fer why it might be tha' folks flock, I imagine it's the idiosyncrasy o' the city." Her mouth twists as she moves her cigarette back to her lips.
"It calls to the dispossessed."
A beat. "And as far as I know, there is no one here who has been 'ere as long as I ha'." The words are flat, even and carefully pronounced.
[Michael Carroll] Her answer is curt. They usually are. He shrugs in response, turning his head to look down at the busy streets below. "Maybe I'm just overthinkin' it. But it seems t' me that there's more goin' on, somethin' bigger about this city. Things are done differently here than anywhere else I've been. Sure t' be fair I haven't been many places, but Chicago..."
A quick burst of steams pours from his lips as he sighs in exasperation. The flask reappears from his coat pocket, another nip to ward off the cold. "We've always been enamoured with our hierarchies, but here it's like some sort o' social experiment that's blown itself way out o' proportion. There are offices for everything except literacy and wipin' our own asses."
[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, "I wouldn't know about that. Not particularly involved in the Sept, am I? That said, the Grand Elder is a Glass Walker. S'not like they're unknown fer their love o' bureaucracy don't they just?"
She lifts her cigarette back to her lips.
[Michael Carroll] "Y' might not be involved in the Sept, but you've been here a long time and there are more stories told about you than half the True I've met in this city." Another quiet chuckle is briefly muffled by a quick pull from the steel flask. "And y' seem t' have a pretty good handle on the political practices o' the Glass Walkers."
He extends the flask towards her, just on the off chance she's decided a bit of whiskey would go nicely with the conversation. "I don't mean t' blow smoke up your ass, there's just alot o' wind in a flask o' the Creature."
[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, once again refusing the flask. "If they tell stories about me," she says, picking up her wine glass, lifting it and draining it, "I'm sure it is not about my solicitude and willingness t'involve myself in the Nation's business."
Her mouth twists in a smirk, "Besides, sayin' that a Glass Walker loves bureaucracy is like saying a Fianna loves uisce beatha. S'hardly a revelation."
[Michael Carroll] The chuckle becomes a good-natured laugh. It is a joyful sound, one that only a half-drunk Fianna can produce in this sort of cold weather. Like many of his brethern, Michael seems to feel emotion at a slightly higher volume than most. The flask is sampled once more then disappears into his coat. "Well said, Doctor. Are y' certain I can't entice y' to join me in a bit o' bar-hopping? This party will go on just fine without the likes o' us darkening their doorstep."
[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, moving away from the heater to the standing cigarette disposal in the far corner, flicking the cancer-stick into the receptacle.
"I don't drink wi' full bloods," her shoes click softly against the concrete as she walks back, adjusting her wrap around her arms and shoulder, picking up her empty glass.
She wears a delicate stainless steel watch on her wrist and she glances at it briefly. "Yeh should get started, if yeh want to go. It's about th'time the bars fill up."
[Michael Carroll] A single brow arches sharply at her first statement. He watches as she begins preparing to make an exit, a small, sly grin on his face. His cheeks are flushed from a combination of drink and cold, the red hue spreading slowly to cover every inch of his closely shaved head. "Well, y' can't blame a fella for tryin', can y'? You're actually pretty good company for someone who doesn't want t' be."
[Imogen] "That's the whisky," she retorts. "Clouds yer judgement. C'mon then. Yeh'd best head out while yeh can still walk."
[Michael Carroll] A good-natured wink accompanies the smirk that follows. "O' all th' things you've said t' me, that might be the most insulting. Y' greatly underestimate my drinking skills, Doctor." He pushes himself away from the wall, one hand coming up to slip loose his bowtie. The collar is next, and in an instant he is transformed from well dressed man-about-town to half-drunk reveler. He walks very deliberately towards the doors, casting a glance over his shoulder. "See? Didn't stumble once."
He pulls open one of the glass doors and steps back, giving a slight bow as he gestures Imogen through. "After you, Doctor Slaughter."
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