Welcome to Chicago

[Imogen] It's mid-afternoon on a school day, and the aquarium is mostly deserted but for the few employees unfortunate enough to pull this shift, and several determined caretakers, drawing their youngsters through the exhibits.

She stands in front of a glass cylinder, the contents moving slowly, and never staying still. The moon-jellies are iridescent, pulsing, drifting among each other in the dimly lit water. Imogen is dressed in charcoal grey slacks, a matching suit jacket with a blouse beneath, her leather jacket folded over one arm. Her attire is monochromatic - greys and whites and blacks. It is her hair that is a shock of colour, the brilliant red against the paleness of her skin, the copper eyelashes rimming dark blue eyes.

It is quiet in this section. The jelly-fish are disturbing to children and their caretakers, more interested in the sharks, and the stingrays and the funny looking fish. Waters of the World is not a popular section this time of day.

So for the moment, it is only Imogen, still, her expression reserved, as she watches the alien creatures move within their water-filled cage.

[Michael Carroll] She is not alone for long. Footsteps echo dully in the expansive wing, standing out as a sharp disruption to the low hum of a floor buffer nearby. In moments Michael will be standing two feet to the kinwomans left, his gaze fixed on the jellyfish floating almost lazily through their glass enclosed home. Gone today are the jeans and simple shirts he prefers.

Instead he is dressed sharply, his pressed lavender shirt standing out sharply against a well-tailored black suit. He has even taken the time to match a pocket handkerchief to his tie. A long pause will divide his arrival from his salutation, allowing Imogen plenty of opportunity to exit if she desires solitude. "Beautiful and alien. You sort o' want to touch, but y'know you can't."

[Imogen] There is a shift in her body language as he approaches beside her, a tension snaking through her muscles or - well. Perhaps it is not tension. A tightness perhaps, but simply a retreat from relaxation. A retreat into reservation.

She does not turn immediately when he speaks, but several seconds afterwards, a brief twist of her mouth suggesting a smirk, "And silent," she says, which may well be pointed commentary.

Despite that, her gaze flicks briefly over his attire, an eyebrow arching. "Just at church, were you?"

[Michael Carroll] The possibly (probably) pointed commentary simply brings a wry, somewhat apologetic grin to his face. His eyes leave the fish to fix on Imogen for a moment before turning down to his suit. Hands lift to casually smooth out the fabric of his jacket as he answers. "No, no church today. I've got a meeting later with the aquariums event coordinator. There's a fund-raising gala coming up that the Lady Carroll insists I attend, and I have to make proper arrangements with this Mr. Gadsen so assure that our family donation doesn't go without it's due notice. Thought I'd try and look the part."

He unbuttons his suit coat and slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Not quite the sort of move that fits high-society. Michael begins pacing the open space provided to the Waters of the World exhibit, murky green gaze passing over each tank. Everything is noted as he walks: informative plaques, restrooms, windows, doors...every possible angle is carefully examined by the Ragabash. "And yourself, Doctor Slaughter? Taking a break from the world o' the dead to watch a little life?"

[Imogen] Imogen does not move to follow him, remaining instead in front of the single tank with its forever moving contents. She does, however turn her head to watch him as he paces.

"One would have thought," she observes mildly, "tha' a First Change and all the consequential responsibilities would relieve yeh o' doldrums o' -" a pause before she chooses her phrasing carefully. She has had to speak a little louder since he's walked away. Not much, but enough. They are alone, but she has no way of guaranteeing their privacy.

"Normal charity."

He asks why she might be here.

"Yeh might choose to put it that way," she says in such a way that is indicative that she might not.

[Michael Carroll] He chuckles and shakes his head, turning to face Imogen across the marbled flooring. "You would think so, wouldn't you just? But the Lady Carroll must have her accolades, even if an ocean seperates her from the voices that praise. And as I am her only child, the burden o' securing said praise falls on my shoulders."

The pacing resumes, far more slowly now as he takes his hands from his pocket to clasp them behind his back. "You told me once that you don't care for familial ties. If yours are anything like mine, I can't blame you one bit. How is the business o' dead people today? Anything o' interest?"

[Imogen] He suggests a reason she might be avoiding family, and Imogen merely smirks, turning back to the glass. "I daresay," she says, which is an answer which means precisely nothing, neither confirming nor refuting his assumption.

He asks her about how her day has been - has anything of interest come up. "Interest fer you?" she asks, rhetorically, answering the question herself. "No. Medically interesting? I performed an autopsy on a child wi' situs invertus." A flick of a glance toward him.

"His organs were reversed, in other words."

[Michael Carroll] His eyes widen, and once again he stops in his tracks to face her. "Reversed? You mean they were on the wrong side of his body?"

[Imogen] She nods, slightly, her thumbs hooking into the loops of her slacks, sharing space with her thin belt. "Heart on the right, liver and gall-bladder on the left, stomach on the right et cetera, yes."

[Michael Carroll] Now he moves to stand beside her, arms crossing over his chest as he stares through the thick glass at the floating jellyfish beyond. The dim lighting within the tank illuminates his face with a greenish glow that shifts and pulses as the water moves ceaselessly. "Is that what caused him to die? It seems like other than being a medical anomaly, that sort o' condition would be relatively benign."

[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, "There are some instances o' congenital heart defects, but primarily, the condition he had was not fatal. Complicates treatment though, if the doctors are unaware in an emergency situation. As it was in this case."

As she speaks, she watches the moon jellies as they float within their container. It is a sort of water-dance, slow and unending.

[Fiona Rogers] ooc: Sooooo where are y'all?

[Michael Carroll] "Oh."

The expression isn't dismissive, though Michael doesn't raise the subject of the unfortunate boy anymore. Instead he reaches up and places the tip of his finger on the glass, only inches from a sign specifically asking that patrons do not touch the glass. Slowly he traces invisible lines along the tank, connecting points that only he can see. "There are days I wish I had never come to this city. The...others here. They do things much differently than what I'm used to. I suppose that's what I came for, but it really shows me how far from home I am."

His eyes never leave the tank, and his voice is so quiet it could be coming from across a great distance. Maybe he's not even speaking to her.

[Michael Carroll] ((Looking at jellyfish! in a nearly empty aquarium!))

[Imogen] Her eyes close briefly - it's a blink really, but one that lasts microseconds longer than it should have, punctuated by a contraction of her brow. The contraction smooths, her eyes open.

"Welcome to America," she says, her voice flat, which goes beyond it's normal restraint.

[Fiona Rogers] It's mid-afternoon on a school day, and the educational quadrant of Grant Park is saying farewell to the yellow school buses which bring them children to educate (children who run riot [who giggle, and laugh, and bite freedom and swallow it whole]). There is one yellow bus, not in front of the aquarium, which is leaving just now, and the chaperones did not headcount very well because out of the seventy four children who went on the field trip there are only seventy two children actually squabbling and shouting and staring out the window and throwing things actually on the buses.

Imogen and Michael are looking at the moon-jellies, are where it is quiet, hallowed, lit as if by sealight. There is a hush in places like these, in the quieter corners, only broken by a distant shout, the squeak of sneakers against polished floor, noise in the gift shop. The (young [very]) girl is walking down a hall into the room Imogen and Michael fill and she is reading a timeline poster plastered on a wall, reaching out to thumb a pamphlet out of a sconce on the wall, then rolling it into a spyglass cylinder. She has no purebreed. She has not too many distinguishing features at all, really, except for an oversized hoodie, a hood pulled up over her flyaway [wistfully] waving hair. Her sneakers catch on a bump on the floor, and she jumps up and to the side like a startled cat (that sneaker squeak), and then as if nothing happened at all, just begins to wind around the cylinder-tank, looking through the glass at the distorted shape of People On The Other Side.

More than People, actually. People. Her forehead scrunches and she presses it against the glass, breath steaming, as she stares and tries to take their measure, pressing her palms against the glass. Her backpack starts to sag off of her shoulder.

[Michael Carroll] One of the luminous jellyfish floats slowly towards the Fianna as he stares into the tank. Quickly, before it can move away, Michael leans forward and fogs the glass with a hot blast of his breath. Fingers move deftly across the condensation, and in a split-second the jellyfish has a smiley face, glasses, horns and a beard. The image only lasts for a moment before the sea creature expands and then sharply contracts, propelling itself away from the indignity being forced upon it.

"Why is the child on the other side o' the glass trying to push her way through?" The question comes from nowhere, and is only explained by a simple gesture at Fiona's glass-shaped pig-face staring from the other side of the large tank.

[Roman Turner] Boots softly scuffed against the floor in a faint echo through the little oddly lighted tunnel from one larger room to the next. Fish swam up both sides of the tunnel and over the top, it was like walking in a big tube through a giant fish tank. The light here wavered, making odd designs on clothing and face as the light filtered through the water and the movement of fish momentarily altered it's direction. His upper face was cast in deep shadow created by the brim of a buff Stetson. His hands were tucked in the back pockets of jeans so dark and new, stiffly pressed they looked like they could stand on their own. A jean jacket hung open, the front pulled open with the hands in the back pockets posture, exposing a neatly pressed Western cut shirt in cream and rust.

"I'll be hanged, who would of thought."

Mused softly.

[Imogen] The moment is broken - and Imogen shakes it off metaphorically, leaning forward only slightly to narrow her eyes at the glass.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she says, straightening, almost dismissively. Unlike Michael she does nothing for the pleasure of the younger girl, merely noting her existence, evaluating her threat-level (green, so far).

"She's likely not to manage it though," she observes. "At least not like that."

[Imogen] (eating dinner!)

[Michael Carroll] ((Same actually! Gonna be slow!))

[Michael Carroll] ((Err...slower))

[Fiona Rogers] Even through the distortion of water, of drifting, boneless animals (who glow [they do]), it's hard to mistake Fiona's eyes for anything but huge. The kind of eyes she probably uses to stare at people solemnly with until they get uncomfortable or/and crack a joke or feel the need to make some comment. Michael's voice carries. So does Roman's. And Imogen's. The two Fianna (People) are looking back at Fiona, and she executes a maneuver in which she pulls back from the glass, then leans forward again, but miscalculates the distance from the glass, and bonks her head. She swallows any sound this might draw from her, ducking down a little too suddenly to just be tying her shoes. Roman's got that air of heroes in his carriage, too, muted though it is, and Fiona's heart is suddenly pounding, and her mouth is suddenly dry, and she hugs her knees there on the floor, trying to figure out what to do.

After a tense second, she rubs her nose with her sleeve, and then stands up. This is what she says to Roman, circling around the tank to get closer to Imogen and Michael: "Hi uhm. Hi. Sir. Hat sir. Sir with hat. Uhm, shit. I mean, fuck - no, I mean - ugh." Her face is pink. Very pink. "Sorry. I just meant to say hi. But without sounding so lame. But I sound lame. And I'm not. I mean, I'm very fit. Shit, I sound - I'm - I will - ack."

[Roman Turner] He paused with a mixture of expressions crossing his face with the babble that spilled out of the girl. Confusion was the biggest emotion before a huge smile spread cross his face, crinkling the corners of gray-blue eyes slightly.

"Well howdy. Do ya kiss your momma with that mouth? I ain't never heard so much spill out so fast since my cousin got caught sneaking in the winda in the middle of the night after skinny dippin in the neighbor's pond."

His accent was what many folk in the city would call a twang

[Fiona Rogers] Fiona bites the inside of her lip. Her lips are chapped, but prettily shaped, and she worries at a skintag, gnawing until -- oh, now her tongue tastes of copper, and her lip is bleeding, just enough for color. She presses her lips together, then lifts her eyes to Roman's face, all studious. He's smiling, and that draws a smile in response from Fiona, something that is utterly shy and quite unaffectedly hopeful. "Noooo," and here, she rolls her eyes, pulling on her hoodie. "My mom doesn't like me to kiss her. She says kissings bourgeoisie. And she'd like, I try uhm, I'm trying not to curse so much, because it is making serious dents in my allowance, and uhm, I can't really work, you know, 'cause. Well, and uhm. I just, I don't know, so I guess: no, I do not kiss my momma with this mouth." The smile becomes a grin, mischievous. "I try not to talk too much around her. It is safer. Way. I'm Fiona." With her name said, she darts a quick glance toward Imogen and Michael again, then back to Roman, and the smile and grin disappear (dissipate [foam on the shore]), replaced by hesitation.

[Roman Turner] "Well howdy Miss Fiona. Mighty pleased ta meet ya. I'm Roman, Roman Turner. I ain't sure what kissing bourboneese is, sounds like maybe a drinkin problem. Ya a local gal?"

He followed her look through the water of the tank and did a double take.

"Well boy howdy, I think I see a Mermaid."

[Michael Carroll] Michael watches curiously as Fiona seems to make an actual attempt at breaking through the glass, then collapses out of view. She has firmly secured his attention. With brow arched, he begins walking slowly around the edge of the exhibit. Eventually he rounds the large jellyfish habitat to spot the young girl babbling at a fellow No-Moon.

He smiles broadly, the Irish accent unmistakable as he trills and brogues his way through a simple question. "Shouldn't the two o' you truants be in school then?"

[Roman Turner] The voice got his attention instantly and the smile was returned with a bit of a wry one. "No sir, we're on a field trip. Ain't we?"

He nudged Fiona for support.

[Fiona Rogers] "I uhm, just moved here," Fiona says, very quietly. The aquarium might well swallow her voice. Drown it whole. Roman says he spies a mermaid, and Fiona looks down the glass, wide and wistful. Her voice is enthusiastic, though. "Oh! She does look like one. Or like, a Robin McKinley heroine, all fiery red hair and white skin. She's really pretty, like a Queen. I bet jellyfish would make good spies for a mermaid. Probably. Hello," she says, to a jellyfish, and she reaches out to touch the glass, her brow furrowing again. She sways, and then turns pink again (she blushes often, it seems), when Michael comes around, speaks to them with his Irish accent. The accent causes her to look absolutely delighted and she half-bounces in place. "HELLO." The delight stays -- like he is the best thing she has heard all day, and she's trying to keep the excitement down. (She is.) That was way too loud. It echoes. When Roman nudges her, she grins at him, "Yes totally. We're learning stuff. Way more awesome than algebra."

[Roman Turner] "Yeah, what she said. Way more awesome than algae bras."

He hadn't noticed anything familiar about Fiona yet, but Michael gave off all the little signs that had Roman teasing him.

"Are ya the tour guide?"

[Michael Carroll] "Learnin' how to create a public disturbance by shaking apart these fishtanks wi' your bouncin', girl." Despite the chiding in his voice, he continues to smile brightly for Fiona. His eyes lift slowly from the energetic young girl to Romans face, his expression cautious. "I'm more tourist than tour guide. I know you, from the gathering at the high school. Wasn't your school, was it? That'd be a serious lack o' school pride, fella."

[Roman Turner] "Truth be told? It weren't top on my list of brightest ideas being there like that." For a second he looked like he'd sucked a lemon and the expression came and went like a flash. "And no sir, weren't my school. Where I came from, we were raised more self contained, home schooled."

[Imogen] Imogen walks around the tank, considerably slower than Michael, taking longer to drag her interest over to the two teenagers currently standing in front of the older Garou.

The kinswoman is slight and the way she joins them speaks volumes - she does not quite join them - does not stand beside Michael, does not stand beside Roman but more adjacent to them all, able to keep them all in sight.

"Roman," she greets one, her gaze flicking briefly toward the girl, her eyes narrowing slightly. "H'lo."

[Roman Turner] "Howdy Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am." The sudden smile he gave her was pure puppy love. Touching the tip of his hat as he greeted her and introduced Fiona.

"This here is Miss Fiona, like the Princess in Shrek. Only, I don't know if she turns big and green at night yet or not."

[Fiona Rogers] There is now: one boy her age with Unicorn's blood, one Fianna from Ireland she really, reallyreally, really wants to ask a question but manages to refrain with dignity and will, another Fianna who sounds like she's from across the pond and looks like a Queen, and Fiona. That's three people she doesn't know, and she's not quite sure what to do. For a confounded second she studies her toes again, listening to Michael and Roman, trying to parse this businesss about schools and highschools and, "You teach at a high school? My daddy's a principal." Even she seems to find this question inadequate, though, and she doesn't quite pull her eyes from her feet to ask it. The queen woman talked to you! The queen woman talked to you! Her heart is beating fast, again. "Whoa. Slaughter? That's your real name? Or did it earn it for something?" The wide eyes go right to Imogen's, and her shoulders are a little hunched -- self-protective. "Uh erm, not that that would mean it wasn't real, just uhm. Like is it your real DOCTOR name?"

Roman makes her smile again, bouncing a little in place, and she gives him a sidelong look, which she couples with a baring of her teeth [frisson (this is for play, but it COULD be for a real)] and a, "RAR. I am a name riddle and the name is something cool. And howly. Awoo." She makes claw fingers at him, and then ducks her head again. She is still smiling at being likened to a cartoon princess.

[Kora] God knows there are enough Garou in the aquarium today. Add one more: turning the corner from another display room. Tall, long-limbed, with pale blond hair, attractive, perhaps, but not pretty. A function of even features, sharp, well-defined bones beneath her face; strong cheeks and a strong jaw softened by the width of a curving mouth. Dressed in jeans tucked into black Doc Marten's, pale-blue cotton tunic underneath a gray University of Chicago hoodie, unzipped. Pregnant. Very pregnant, and alone today.

Strangers do not approach her, though. They don't crowd her, reminisce about their own children and grandchildren, offer the usual unsolicited advice. They most certainly do not ask if she's chosen a name, or try to touch her stomach. Instead: most step aside, especially parents with children, driving by an instinct they cannot name. At least it leaves her direct path free. Hands in the front pockets of her jeans, forearms framing her pregnant stomach, she ambles toward the small group, giving Roman a familiar bump as she joins them, bathed in the dappled blue light from the water. "Doc. Roman." Greetings, offered quietly. She arrives soon enough to hear Fiona's name too, and gives the girl a brief, sure once-over, then cuts a glance toward Michael. "Michael, yeah?" Confirming, though she needed. They were introduced one night change he challenged her packmate to a drinking contest. She doesn't forget names.

A glance back to Roman, then. "Making friends, are you?" Then, a lifting look back to Fiona, frank and appraising, all in one.

[Imogen] Imogen regards Fiona with something resembling resignation.

"It's my real name, yes. Cousins don't earn names."

Clearly the kinswoman has worked out Fiona's blood, if only partway. Kora approaches, heavily pregnant, slightly slow moving, a little heavier in her weight, in the way she moves.

No one would dare say she waddles.

"Kora," the kinswoman greets her.

[Michael Carroll] He nods at the Fenrirs approach, offering a distracted. "Yeah. Well to see ya again, Kora." The standard honorific is carefully left off in consideration of the possibly mixed company. Much like Kora, Michaels attention is drawn entirely now to Fiona. The one piece here that hadn't quite fit in place. Every word from her causes his expression to switch from amusement to confusion and back again, but it's Imogens reference to "cousins" that turns the Irishman serious. He glances to the doctor curiously. "Is she?"

[Roman Turner] He was a good deal more demonstrative than many. Kora bumped him and he full turned to grasp her in a quick brotherly hug including a swift brush of his lips across her cheek. His smile was big when he released Kora. To him there was nothing prettier in the world than a woman carrying the future of their kind and this particular woman was as close as relationships could get between Garou other than blood shared, they were Pack.

"This here is Princess Fiona."

He introduced Fiona to Kora, nudging the girl closer.

"She's a bouncy as a kid what ate his entire Easter Basket's contents in one sitting."

[Imogen] "She is," answer the pure bred Fianna, evenly, without hesitation or misunderstanding.

[Fiona Rogers] "Slaughter. Wow." Fiona seems impressed. "That's cool. Like a name for an ax queen." Kora - Kora, with her status, clear as anything; at least as clear as the lineage of the two Fianna and Roman - Kora, pregnant and appraising, draws Fiona's eyes for only a second. Then, rather firmly, as if remembering her lost (heh?) dignity, Fiona refuses to look at Kora's face. Instead, she focuses on Kora's collarbones, and Fiona is Princess of Blushes, because the Blush is here to stay, it is shining through her eyebrows, it is even turning her neck pink. Roman calls her Princess Fiona again, and her smile widens a hair, and then snaps off like a light while her eyebrows draw together in sudden worry. "ButI'mnotreally. Cadbury eggs would be nice. Uhm, I didn't. Cousins earn," a pause. She swallows, and then says, "YesIdothinkwearerelatedbutyouguysaremoreinterestinglyrelatedtothefamilytreethanIam. Like, way. Uhmshould. I. Do you want more?" This question is asked more of Kora than the rest, and her voice has dropped to a Discreet Whisper. She sounds utterly miserable.

[Fiona Rogers] ooc: sorry all! I'ma be a little slow for a while. Making food! You can always assume Fiona's way too tonguetied to reply to questions if necessary (grin)

[Kora] Roman is a good deal more demonstrative than Kora. She gives him a familiar bump - heavier, rather more graceless for it - as she insinuates herself into the loose knot. He turns and hugs her and she is too gravid to step away from it, but she's stiff, awkward looking - every five feet and eleven inches of her Fenrir in that moment - her generous ease withdrawn behind that awkward sense of tolerance. Of things to be endured, like great aunts at Christmas time, their papery skin and talcum powder scent.

Then Roman releases her; she acknowledges Michael's nicety with a quiet "Cheers," lifting her chin in his direction, then glancing back at Fiona, taking in the overwhelming avalanche of words with a certain clear bemusement. "It's pretty public here, Fiona. I'll let you off the hook tonight, yeah? We'll do the official thing when we leave, or save it for some other night."

Then, a glance back at Imogen, a flare of her nostrils. The expression is subtle, a bit distant. "Some do, Doc." Watchful, maybe, though she goes no further with the thought. Instead, a more general question, wry - "Tell me where wasn't a murder at the aquarium."

[Kora] (Add - )

"Because this is an insane coincidence."

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze is brief and blue when Kora mentions that some do, her expression controlled and even. Unrevealing. She does not answer, but answers the next, a question, wry.

"If it were a murder, I'd not be standin' here chatting wi' you lot, would I?" she asks, casting a glance to her watch.

"Insane coincidence it is, then. I'd best be off though."

[Roman Turner] "I don't know, ya might be casually talkin while watching for bits of flesh to float by in the tanks. I seen ya do some strange things."

Imogen mentioned leaving and Roman immediately gave Kora a look as he said.

"I'll walk her to her car. Wouldn't want one of them fish men to come take our Mermaid."

[Fiona Rogers] "Okay," she says, whispering. Fiona's sleeves are long. The hoodie is oversized, remember? Fiona pulls them, tugs them, awkward, until they're trailing over her fists, and then shoves them up her skinny wrists and touches the back of her hands to her cheeks, as though to cool them. Her lips part, and she half-closes her eyes, just -- content to listen. Just -- listening, although through those half-closed eyes, she's watching Imogen and Michael, half-anxious, half-testing, daydreaming, away with the fairies. And then, "UhmbyeDoctor - " a pause, and a half-giggle, dredging itself up " - Slaughter." She then says to Kora, "Anduhm. Hey. Is it - soon? That, I mean. You look f- uhm, you look soon."

[Kora] "Maybe you just finished covering it up," still wry, though Kora matches steadiness for steadiness. There's a different quality to her own stillness. She's not unrevealing, just reserved. The surface breaks for the edge of an easy smile near the end, though it goes a bit still as she flicks a glance at Roman. "Night doc. Roman."

Then Fiona, stretching out the already too-long sleeves of her hoodie, turns and asks her is it soon; Kora gives her a look, pale brows drawing close over her dark eyes, her confusion too clear. The lights from the tank swim across the surface of her gaze but do not illuminate the depths. "Is what - ?" It's Fiona's line of sight, though. The faint, suggestive way the younger creature drops her eyes to Kora's not-to-be-ignored (everyone ignore it) stomach, and her own eyes follow the look.

Dear world, she cannot see her toes.

Kora breathes out, a huff of breath. "Oh," like revelation. Her narrow shoulders twist in a fatalistic shrug. The waxing moon makes everything harder. Being in her skin; being in one place; stuck here between worlds, unable to access both. The restlessness mirrors the restlessness from before she knew what she was. Then she was free; now she's anchored.

" - yeah. It better be fucking soon," she goes on. She does not, it seems, have a swear jar, no matter how much Roman wanted to start one. I don't know when, though."

[Imogen] Imogen turns to talk, Roman walking beside her. As they walk toward the domed aquarium hallway, one imagines, they can hear Roman's voice as he says something - anything. And Imogen's more sedate reply. Within seconds, they are distorted by water, then a passing shark obscures them from view. Then, they are gone from sight, a corner turned.

(Thanks for the RP!)

[Fiona Rogers] ooc:No, thank YOU for letting me play with y'all!

[Roman Turner] ((Thank you guys! Bed time! ))

[Fiona Rogers] Then there were three. Michael, Kora, Fiona. Fiona begins knotting the ends of her sleeves, pulling them around each other into fanciful, dragonesque shapes, an expression of her nervous energy, and she directs her gaze up toward the ceiling of the aquarium. The room is so hushed; there isn't anyone yelling in the rest of the aquarium right now. There isn't a cluster of people around the sharks: staring in awe at an alien which scents by blood -- and never, ever stops. "Should we, uhm. Leave too?" A beat. And then, "This guy back home. He was older, uhm, and I. Er, he told me that, uhm, you - that because you can't STRETCH out like," here, a meaningful look, "like you wanna, when you're, like. Uhm, you know. The way you are. That girls never got pregnant and it was okay." She smiles, "But I knew he was being stupid. I still have never actually met someone who was pregnant." A pause, a frown. "Well, not someone with flesh that wasn't for eating."