[Imogen] The bar is dimly lit, small tables dotted around a central bar and a more off-side dance floor. It is a swanky place, the kind with a dress code and a martini list a mile long. The kind with small bowls filled with water and votive candles floating decoratively. It is before midnight, so the dance floor is half empty, the music a little lower, a DJ working behind a glass walk as he makes his sounds and creations, a fusion of jazz and electronica that has made him - not a big name, but at least not an unknown one among Chicago's nightlife.
She has appropriated cushioned side of a half booth, her slight body taking a mere fraction of the space offered to her. She never quite fits precisely where-ever she is. Too poised for the slums, too aloof for the yuppies, too unconcerned with wealth for the elite. Still, she frequently dresses the part. A black velvet tank top leaving her arms bare, a scoop neck offering a view of her collarbones but little else. Her tattoo wraps sinuously about her bicep, black and incongruous for Imogen to all that know her but a fit to this environment of bar-hopping adults.
She has a martini glass in hand - an empty one on the table. Her eyes are not on the dance floor but on the DJ, as the music thrums, the bass rippling the votive's waterbowl.
[Hunter] Imogen's phone probably vibrates since it's unlikely she could hear it over the music. Who knows though, maybe it hums the tune to bitter sweet symphony.
[Hunter] From: Hunter
Time: derp
Message: Yo Imogen where you at?
[Imogen] Her phone vibrates, its screen lighting up on the table. A line forms between her brow as she straightens from her recline, setting down her glass to pick up the smart phone, tapping the screen until it retrieves her message.
Her eyebrow arches.
Moments later, Hunter's phone chimes or rings or vibrates or dances the canasta in response. When he retrieves the text it says the following:
Why?
[Hunter] The response is quick, as most responses from the Ahroun have little thought put into them.
What I gotta have a reason to come see you?
[Imogen] I don't imagine you're missing my smiling face. What is it? She texts as if it were a formal mode of communication. One cannot imagine Imogen typing "LOL" or using emoticons to make her point.
[Hunter] Imogen could totally throw out a roflmao if the mood suited, but she doesn't.
Dunno I'd have to fucking see your smiling face first. I just need to meet up.
[Imogen] The mode of communication is stilted. No facial expressions, no vocal tones. A handful of words, then a handful back.
There is a pause before he receives the reply, Mercury Lounge on the Mile. Near West 45th.
[Hunter] Be there soon.
That was the reply she got almost fifteen minutes ago, he can't have been very far, maybe he was on his way to her work place when he texted. It doesn't matter because:
There's a commotion at the door but it would be lost amongst the music for all but the most perceptive. She has been in here long enough to have two drinks, maybe three now; Hunter hasn't been here long enough to even have one made.
"I don't wanna wear ya' god damn fuckin' Jacket, whaddo I fuckin' look like?"
"Sir.. n-no j-jacket n-no e-entry."
"For fuck sakes man, give it'ere."
He has black shoes, there is that. They are worn and there is probably mud on them but they are leather. The doorman wasn't going to argue. His jeans are as ever, stained and there's most likely blood on that t-shirt beneath the black pinstripe blazer he has been given, but he's here and he's stalking through the room with his eyes flashing from table to table until they lock on the Fenrir in Fianna clothing.
"Imogen." Like usual, he looks uncomfortable in this jacket, but he slides into the booth opposite her, taking up considerably more space than her lithe form.
"Some fuckin' place."
Jazz. If Hunter knew anything about Jazz he would probably would prefer lee morgan to dizzy, monk to charlie. He would like the jazz messengers if he knew anything about it. But he doesn't so it's all just noise to him, even when it's artfully dissected and allocated into the beats and buzz of a modern house track.
[Imogen] Her mouth twists slightly as Hunter stomps forward wearing a black jacket which clearly does not belong to him. "Sorry," she says without meaning it, "I should ha' warned you there was a dress code."
She picks up her martini glass again, lifting an eyebrow in his direction. "So?"
[Hunter] "Why fuckin' say sorry if ya' don't mean it?"
She has distracted him from his reasons for being here.
[Imogen] She takes a swallow of her drink, which is colourless in her glass, and lowers it to lift her eyebrow again, "How about instead o' lecturing me on semantics, yeh tell me why you're here."
[Hunter] A shrug of his shoulders; a raising of his eyebrows and he relaxes into the booth, throws a heavy set arm up along the back of the seat. His jaw is smooth and there's a hint of blood just above his collar. It's visible when he stretches his arm out, and remains peeking from the circular entrance of his garment and disappearing beneath.
"So this cousin comes to me the other day right? N'she says, hey, I need ya' to beat me the fuck up on camera so I can teach all our other cousins how to fight men like you."
[Imogen] There is an extended pause where Imogen regards him flatly, waiting for the punchline. When none becomes apparent, she says, "You told her no, I hope."
[Hunter] A look is levelled at her that is absolutely as flat as hers. "No, I fuckin' ripped her right there on the street. Course I fuckin' said no."
He leans forward, swings around till his elbows are pressed into the table.
"Here's the catch though, girl says she's gonna get it done with or without my help. N'here's the other catch. She's leadin' other kin. She's tryin' to get them all god damn organised. She's got a god damn death wish n'she's convincin' other kin that it's the right thing to do."
[Imogen] Imogen pauses, briefly.
"I imagine you are telling me this for a reason and not merely because you wish to vent."
She picks up her glass again.
[Hunter] This is where he does hesitate before responding; this is where he does narrow eyes and actually think about what he's going to say. In the end he just goes with the truth.
"They need ya'."
[Imogen] She blinks. it is only once, but still worthy of note. She blinks. Perhaps she had expected this response, but not quite in this way, not quite that bluntly, or that viscerally. It is nearly eloquent in its simplicity.
She lifts the martini glass and drains it, setting it back down. Her gaze moves away toward the moving and gyrating people on the dance floor, though she does not truly see their details, she looks at them for several moments.
"I heard there was a meeting tomorrow - tha' kin were invited to the Caern. Is that what this is about?"
[Hunter] He's lost in thought for a moment, watching the unexpected reaction from her. A breath through his nostrils has him responding.
"Nah, don't rightly know what that's about. Gotta go as head of my tribe, but no idea what for."
A beat, consideration.
"Could be connected I guess. I heard Lukas told the G-E about it, but I doubt he'd call a meetin' of all Tribal Alpha's n'heads of Moons just for one little fuckin' owlet. Surely not."
[Imogen] "Tribal Alphas, heads of moons and," she stresses the word with needlepoint precision, "any and all kinfolk. It's certainly something."
She is silent - a waiter half passing by to see if another drink is needed and the kinswoman turns him away with a shake of her head without checking with the Garou.
Her hand rests on the table - her fingers tap the edge of it.
"Let me think about it," she says finally. "Alright?"
[Hunter] The tip of his tongue touches to a canine when she stresses that and. "My bad," he mumbles. By the time she's asked him to let her think about it, he has relaxed again. "Yeah," he says with understanding. "Course, no problem. Thanks."
He pushes up from the table and slides out of the booth, the jacket gets discarded where he had been sitting.
"I think that's it, less ya' suddenly got an urge to dance or somethin'." It doesn't sound hopeful; it sounds like he's saying cya.
[Imogen] She smirks faintly, shaking her head. "Not a chance."
[Hunter] He grins back at her. "Yeah yeah, one'a these days Imogen. Maybe I'll find out if ya' smiles worth missin' or not."
"Later," tossed over his shoulder as the Ahroun is stalking away. The door-man seems to want to question him about where the Jacket is but all he gets is a curled lip from Hunter and he shuts up.
Exit stage left.
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