[Imogen Slaughter] The neighbourhood is crumbling around them. An old school, its doors long since boarded, broken into and boarded up again and broken into and ... the cycle continues. Its chain link fence has begun to rust, creating a barrier between the school and its surroundings. Despite this meagre effort the difference between the two is nothing. Dilapidated and worn out concrete sidewalk and buildings lead to a chain link fence, broken in parts, leads to dead grass and dirty piles of snow in the shadow of the building, great swathes of mud, the broken concrete of the foundation and the broken glass, tired red decaying brick, boarded up school building.
She picks her way across the schoolyard, no taller than some of the taller children who may have played here. She is dressed down - jeans, a corduroy jacket, no-nonsense boots, but the red-haired woman stands out all the same. She does not belong here. Her spine is too unbowed, her shoulders too straight. Her skin too fine, clean and cared for.
She carries a bottle in a paperbag, the latter wrapped around the neck of the former, loose at her side. She walks toward the fence, and a hole that will permit her exit - though only just, as she bends the metal and slides her body through.
[Michael Carroll] It is impossible to know how long he had waited outside the school, hidden in the shadows of a nearby vacant storefront. It's story is much the same as the schools. Much the same as many of the surrounding buildings. It has served many purposes in the decades since it's doors were first opened, but there are none alive who remember when it was a family owned pharmacy. Only a very few remember the days during the Civil Rights crusades, when the Black Panthers had bought the storefront and turned it into one of their offices. Every good, proud memory attached to this building...to this neighborhood...has faded away in near-nothingness.
Now the memories created are dark. The stories of the area, when they are told, are tales of pain and degradation. The days when the storefront became a shooting gallery, and children would cross the street after school for a shared dose of heroin. Or the time the cops found Lil' Key-lo's body in the backroom, minus genitals and a head. The crack addicts who shamble in with a trick, selling their bodies and souls for a ten dollar bag of dope.
He speaks to her from behind a row of shattered boards that fail to cover an equally shattered window. His voice is low, but carries well across the desolate street to the redheaded woman who clearly does not belong here. "Do y' make it a habit t' tour dangerously derelict buildings in the worse parts o' town? Cuz I hear skydivin's quite th' thrill, if it's an adrenaline rush you're chasin'."
[Imogen Slaughter] When she turns toward him it as an utterly fluid movement - reminiscent of an animal, a predator who plans to attack first, rather than run. Perhaps it is her pure breeding that makes it seem like that - the echoes of generations who were monsters and heroes, or if not heroes, at least remembered that way. Perhaps it is merely that when the humanity of a kinfolk subsumes or worse is stripped away, what is left is something more animal than Garou would care to admit.
She recognizes him. A few strands of hair have come loose from the bun at the nape of her neck, and they swing in front of her eyes as she looks at him, moving slightly with the momentum of her turning, the sudden stop. Her hand is beneath her jacket toward the small of her back, but when it slides out back to her side, it is empty.
She is momentarily still. It is windy, the gust whistling faintly as it howls through the building.
"It always impresses me when full-bloods attempt to criticize me on th'risks I take," she observes after a moment, archly. "Noticed your kind's average life span lately, have you?"
[Michael Carroll] "Well said, Doctor. Hang on, I'm comin' out t' walk with y' a bit." A quiet groan issues from within the dark building as Michael turns to make his way to the door. He pauses for a brief instant, still visible in the broken window, and stomps down hard. Instead of wood or tile, his foot makes contact with something softer. In response, there is a loud grunt followed by a long wheeze. Then, silence. The Ragabash then disappears, only to emerge from a hole in the boarded up front door.
He crosses the street without looking, since there is a noticeable lack of traffic in this particular neighborhood. If she walks, he will walk at her side, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his faded jeans. "It's worth sayin' I didn't mean t' criticize. Y' just...y' really stand out around these parts, y' know?"
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does not answer - but when he comes down, she is still there, having brushed her hair from her eyes, shifted her stance slightly.
"Short o' dyin' my hair," she answers, starting to walk again, "I don't imagine I ha' much o' a choice in tha' matter."
[Michael Carroll] He lopes along beside her, allowing the shorter legs to dictate the pace of their walk. The broken sidewalk rises and falls below their feet, causing the occasional odd step or brief detour. Every once in awhile they will pass a pedestrian or two, Michael fixing his eyes dangerously on each one in turn. Everyone...young and old, big or small...will be held under close scrutiny, as if the Ragabash expects treachery at every turn.
"Couldn't imagine y' with anything but that shock o' flames. Wouldn't do y' justice." He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, checking an open doorway as they pass. "I know I'm pryin' when I ask, but what sort o' business did y' have t' attend in a boarded up schoolhouse?"
[Imogen Slaughter] She does not force him to slow all that much - though she is slight she a quick, purposeful gait. Her awareness of the area is no less than his, her hands loose by her side, her jacket open though it is a little cool for that.
She glances, sidelong at him as he asks his - self-identified as prying - question. "I ha' a contact 'round 'ere," she says, lifting the paper bagged bottle in illustration. "He sometimes squats in th'school."
[Michael Carroll] He smirks as she shows him the bottle. "Seems a long, dangerous way t' go for a bit o' firewater. And y' called me a stereotype."
Somewhere nearby, a dog bursts into explosive barking, challenging whatever animal he feels at the edge of his territory. The sound visibly irritates the Fianna, who grits his teeth as they pass it's source. From within the dogs domicile, shouts erupt. The voices rise loudly to drown out the animal, telling it to "shut the fuck up or...". The rest of the threat will go unheard as they continue along the rundown streets of the ghetto. "By th' by, my pack is apparently bein' tasked to reach out t' all the Kinfolk in th' city. So, consider yourself reached out to."
[Imogen Slaughter] She casts him a glance of resignation, "The bottle isn't fer me," she says. "S'for him. A gift." The dog bursts into barking and her head turns, but her reaction is far more tempered than his abrupt irritation. It is merely a turn of her head, awareness.
He continues to speak and this time, the glance Imogen offers is somewhat exasperated, eyebrows arching. "You would think wi' all the sudden concern o' Full Bloods fer Half Bloods that we'd had a Skin Dancer in our midst or somethin'."
Her mouth twists slightly, as her attention turns forward, changing her bottle from one hand to the other. Her free hand now reaches into her pockets, retrieving a soft packet of cigarettes. "I'm well reached out t' thank you. So are most kinfolk, I would suspect. Two meetings fer their benefit so far, a Kinfolk liaison and a Sept Liaison and now a whole pack dedicated t'their benefit." A beat. "T'say nothin' about their own tribal elders, whatever packs might be concerned fer them and the rumours o' a potential leader among them."
It is one of the longer dialogues he's received from her, filmed with irritation, well leashed beneath her rich voice.
[Michael Carroll] His brow arches curiously when she speaks. It is, in actuality, the longest dialogue he's heard issue from the doctor, and tinged with more emotional response than he's seen. When she falls silent again, he allows the lapse in conversation to hang in the air. For half a block there is nothing but silence as his mind works over her words and her reaction. Searching for further insight, and finding none.
At last he lets the thought go. "If it's any comfort, I find it as ridiculous as you. I've got a runnin' bet with one o' my packmates about how long it is before we get Challenged over some fool girl and the lovesick Full Blood that's been chasin' after her. If one o' us gets ripped apart by a Fenrir by next moot, I win fifty."
[Imogen Slaughter] "What would gi' me comfort would be if yeh or someone were t'do something about it," she does not leave space between the words, unlike he had. It is a sharp contrast. "I get th' Full Bloods are bloody concerned about kinfolk runnin' about beggin' to videotape Full-Bloods beating them up, but now yeh ha' too many bloody interested parties, and Kinfolk aren't sure where t'go when they ha' a problem.
A beat. Her gaze flicks away toward the path in front of them - in profile he can see her jaw muscle move as she clenches it. It eases. "Who asked yer pack to reach out?"
[Michael Carroll] He glances over, a small grin on his face as he answers her question. "Our Alpha, the Sept Liaison to the Kin. Fang. Y' can imagine how puffed out his chest is over th' appointment. Doesn't matter how many times I've mocked him, he's still sure it's th' right thing for the Kin."
Now his own gaze returns to their path, dark green eyes searching each nook and cranny that they pass. "Look, I don't mean t' pick your brain, but if somethin's t' be done about it I need t' know how th' Kin feel about all this. Your opinion seems pretty clear, but do y' suppose many o' the others share it? D' y' have enough contact with other Kin t' know?"
[Imogen Slaughter] "Kin Liaison," she corrects mildly. "Sept Liaison is a half-blood, isn't she just?" he knows it is not a real question, but a rhetorical one. A quirk of the United Kingdom, ending sentences with questions when there is no answer necessary.
"I don't presume t'speak fer the kinfolk," she says, "but I'll presume t'speak fer logic. We've had a panic. Some things were startin' t'go awry, not awfully awry, but headed tha' way. The Grand Elder created two new roles - one on the Kinfolk side, the other on the Garou. They're t'bridge the gaps and hopefully make it easier fer kinfolk to raise their issues. A guaranteed role in the Sept fer scenarios where the tribal Elder does not suit or is unavailable or it requires a broader overview than tribe.
"Not a week later, the liaison on' the Garou side, whom, incidentally, I've not met, and as far as I know, the liaison on the Kinfolk side either - though I'll admit tha' may ha' changed, asks his pack t'reach out. I've heard Garou and Kin both confess tha' they're not sure wha' this is. Or what it means. I've told them I thought they should wait, so we can see how things work out, and how these roles define themselves among us."
A beat. "And that," she says evenly, "is what I think yer Alpha should do. Wait."
She draws in a breath. Her cigarettes are still in her hand, unlit. They've approached an ancient Pontiac, more rust than paint, and here she slows, stopping near the side mirror. Though she is quiet, there is a sense of more coming, even as she lights her cigarette, her gaze lowered, thoughts moving beneath the dark blue of her irides like sharks beneath the water.
"I'll be askin' the kinfolk t'gather wi' me," she says finally. "To talk. He'll be invited. We can go from there."
[Michael Carroll] "I thought y' didn't involve yourself in th' politics?" The question is posed gently, and without a trace of mockery. He is genuinely suprised at her stated intention. He is no longer watching her face while they converse. Instead he paces slowly around the Pontiac, eyes alternating between the rusty car and their surroundings. "For his part, Matt...that's m' Alpha...Matt isn't pushin' this thing too hard. He's proud o' it, but I get the sense he's just as confused by it as anyone else. He's just wantin' us t' build some sort o' rapport w' the Kin."
The pacing stops, the Irishman leaning heavily against the cars hood. "I'm just more than a bit nervous about th' direction this whole thing can take. There's more than one True who's gonna feel their toes are gettin' stepped on, even if the contact between liaison and kin is incidental and professional. And if they get possessive, it's could end w' a Kin gettin' the cattle treatment. This whole plan t' further relations could just end up sendin' 'em back a few centuries."
[Imogen Slaughter] "Things change." The sentence is sharp and brittle, uttered with a sudden and undeniable distaste. She takes a drag from her cigarette, turning her head away to blow it away from him.
Another drag of her cigarette, another exhale.
"Everyone is confused," she says. "Somethin's been put in place that no one has ever tried before. But yeh won't get anywhere by puttin' more into place. Go from a single liaison t' a whole pack reaching out."
She regards him flatly. "And if yeh think tha' kinfolk gettin' the cattle treatment is a few centuries out o' date, yeh're quite out o' touch."
Another drag of her cigarette. A long, extended pause. The edge is gone from her voice when she speaks again. "As I understand it, th'roles are t'augment th'existin' infrastructure. Not t'get in the way o' it. So, s'not just a case o' the tribal elders not gettin' sensitive. It's a case o' liaisons bein' aware o' the tribal elders preferences in involvement wi' their kinfolk."
[Michael Carroll] "I didn't say it's outta date, I said relations are gonna get sent back that far." The correction hardly seems important to the Fianna, spoken off the cuff and dropped immediately. He watches the tip of her cigarette as it moves up and down with each drag. The wind kicks up continually, spinning trails of blue smoke away from the glowing cherry. Save for the pair standing at the car, it is quiet in the ghetto. For now. That won't last late into a Friday night.
"I don't think th' idea of the pack reachin' out will be one that endures. Hell, I consider my obligation t' that order fulfilled just by havin' this conversation. But even so, the idea o' the liaison position only adds another layer to a situation that's already uncomfortably complicated. When do y' plan t' have this meet?"
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's mouth turns in a grimace. "I don't disagree," she says. "But I don't think the liaison is meant fer me," her mouth twists slightly. "If I can be so arrogant. So I'll wait t'see how it plays out."
She shakes her head slightly. "A week or two." Her mouth twists, this time a smirk. "I've only just decided fer sure that I'll do it."
[Michael Carroll] "Do me a favor? When y' decide on th' meet, pass on th' time t' me. I'll make sure Matt shows up." The hour has grown late, and the wildlife is beginning to show itself on the Southside. Slowly the streets are starting to fill. Cars filled with teenagers are already cruising up and down the streets. Soon, something will happen. It is just the nature of the streets. "It's about time we get movin' on, Doctor. We tend t' draw attention t' ourselves out here. I'll wait for y' to drive off, just in case..."
[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly. "I'll pass it to him directly." A twist of her mouth. "Too many layers in this already, d'yeh see?"
A glance toward him, then about them. "Don't stay fer me," she says simply. "I don't need or want yer protection."
She does not, however stay to argue the point or check to see that he obeys. "Goodnight," she says as she steps off the curb, stepping around the old-model pontiac (in this, at least, she fits in the surroundings). The door complains as she opens it and gets inside. The engine sputters when she starts it, and finally catches before she pulls away from the curb, taking the next available right to head toward the freeway, then home.
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