Seeds

[Michael Carroll] The weather has taken another turn for the worse, and there's a mandatory evacuation going on at the Brotherhood. There would be no night gardening this eve. The day had been spent hastily collecting tools and supplies from the rooftop, as well as retrieving each joint roach his packmate had absently dropped in the sod. It had been a long afternoon. Now it was time to relax, and Michael does so the best way he knows.

"Slide me another pint o' the McSorelys wouldja John?" The Irishman sits alone in Harry's On Third, at one time a dedicated sports bar, now a hole in the wall with a fairly respectable drink variety. It was one of those fortunate places that could be considered among the citys best kept secrets. The patrons are almost entirely local, and the out of towners aren't obnoxious tourists. They're regular visitors to the city, businessmen for the most part...both legal and illicit. No one care's what you do for a living in Harry's. They only care about what you're drinking.

[Imogen Slaughter] She comes out of the back - pushing through the door marked 'employees only', followed by a tall gentlemen who stops in the doorway. The bar is too loud to hear whatever conversation there is, but one can see her shake his hand - his engulfing grip swallowing her fingers and palm.

She turns one way, and the other turns back toward the back office.

The slight kinswoman adjusts her jacket, her gaze flicking about briefly, before she starts to walk out from behind the bar. She pauses at the nearest stool leaning forward to get the 'tender's attention. She does so easily in the way of an attractive woman.

A tumbler filled with amber whisky, she picks it up, her gaze turning away again. They come to stop on Michael, an eyebrow arching slightly. She lifts the drink in something like an ironic salute.

[Michael Carroll] He watches her exit the back room with a curious grin, then raises his own glass in return to her salutation. Still grinning, he rises from his seat and follows the short length of the bar to join Imogen at the end. The pint is half drained before he arrives; Michael loves his stout. "I'd think y' were followin' me if I didn't know I wasn't that interesting t' ya."

Not bothering to wait for an invitation, he settles on a stool to her left. He still carries the scent of the mornings labors. Fresh air and fresh soil, flowers and just a hint of sweat. The smell of a good days work mingling with an evening of drinks. A blue collar smell. "So, the life o' a Doctor ain't interesting t' y' anymore? Decided t' take up bartending? It's a noble profession, I salute you're desicion."

[Imogen Slaughter] "I've been a bartender," she says absently, rolling her glass so the liquid gently swirls against the sides, the alcohol clinging to the glass and slipping slowly downward. "I don't much care t'do it again."

She glances up, arching an eyebrow.

"Besides, I was 'ere first," a smirk twists her mouth. "Tha' would mean tha' you were followin' me."

[Michael Carroll] "Psh. As if you were interestin' enough for me t' be followin' around." He shoots her a quick wink and pounds back another few mouthfuls from his pint. The Friday crowd has begun to roll in, but the bar is still fairly quiet. It does not attract the sort of people who make noise, or trouble for that matter. The atmosphere is warm and comfortably anonymous.

Michael eyes the kinwomans drink for a moment, then nods his approval. "Good t' know you're not just a scotch and wine sort o' girl. I was startin' t' fear you were one o' those stuck up types."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen glances down at her glass, then back up again, her eyebrow lifting slightly. "It's whisky," she says sardonically. "Not a far cry from scotch at all, is it?

"If you're asking me if I drink beer, I do," she says. "If you're suggestin' I'm a snob, I imagine tha' I am by some standards."

[Michael Carroll] "I wouldn't suggest any such thing, Doctor. John! Yes-please!" He twirls his finger above the rim of his empty pint glass as he calls down to the 'tender. Universal code for "fill 'er up". A replacement drink is quickly slid down the bar into Michaels waiting hand. He lifts it in a toast, spilling cold foam across the back of his hand with the rapid motion. "Now that's a touch o' class that y' don't get just anywhere. Would y' care for one? Got a great flavor, if y' haven't tried one before."

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, lifting her whisky tumbler in indication. She already has a drink. "How long did it take fer you to be on first name basis wi' the bartender?" she asks, lifting her glass to her mouth and taking a measured swallow.

[Michael Carroll] He laughs in response to the question, shrugging before lifting the glass to his lips. A foam mustache has to be wiped away before he can answer properly. "About five minutes. I make it a habit t' get t' know th' fella that's pourin' m' drinks. Keeps the service smooth, and the added benefit o' havin' someone t' converse with when there aren't any Doctors around. Helps that he likes my accent, don't y' there John?"

The last question is posed at an elevated volume to catch the tenders ear. For his part, the older man smiles good-naturedly and offers a small wave in confirmation. "How long did it take y' t' get in th' backroom?"

[Imogen Slaughter] "Thirty seconds," she answers, evenly, deadpan. A moment later, "I know th'owner. He was expectin' me."

A pause, before she adds, "Americans are quite th'sucker fer foreign accents, aren't they just?"

Music plays over the speakers - a slightly obscure artist known for his guitar playing. It's the kind of bar that does this kind of thing, the music less than mainstream, the style more towards the artistic or genuine (or both). There is art on the walls for sale for hundreds of dollars. It is, all in all, a cozy place - crowded in appearance even without customers.

[Michael Carroll] "They really do! It's actually kinda sad, ain't it? It's like there's a national assumption that if y' have an accent you're automatically good in bed. I mean, in m' own case it's true, but it's foolish t' think it applies t' everyone wi' a passport and a visa." There's no way to know how many drinks he's had at this point, but Michael seems to be slowing down. This beer is carefully savored rather than slammed.

He glances over his shoulder at the guitarist, watching with some interest as the performer strums his way through an original song. "Not bad. He play here alot?"

[Imogen Slaughter] She turns her head to look over her shoulder at the guitarist. "Here and elsewhere. He plays in a few bands on th'folk scene. Josh Tate."

A beat, before she speaks again. "Bloody brilliant wi' the guitar. Yeh watch some o' the chords he makes and yeh think he might dislocate a finger."

He'd mentioned before her passion for music and she had merely smoothed it over. However, given the commentary, one can imagine, that Imogen's enjoyment of music is not merely that of a spectator.

[Michael Carroll] It is her clear knowledge of music technicality that draws his interest now. For the moment the guitarist on stage is forgotten, Michaels green eyes fixing instead on Imogens face. He lifts the pint to his lips again, using his time while drinking to consider whether or not his next question violates their agreement about prying. Deciding that it does not, he sets his glass on the bar and returns to watching the performance. "D' y' play any instruments yourself, Doctor?"

[Imogen Slaughter] There is a pause after the question, and it might linger long enough to make the Fianna wonder if he had violated their agreement, or perhaps, more accurately, his promise to her, after all. She is turned to watch the musician, her whisky tumbler balanced on her knee.

Then, she lifts the glass, taking another swallow - she sips the drink, she does not gulp, drinking and savouring good whisky the way it should be. "Guitar," she says, finally. "And the fiddle. I've not played in a bit, though."

[Michael Carroll] "Y' play th' fiddle, too?" The guitar had not exactly surprised him, considering her observations on Tate's performance skills. But the mention of the fiddle brings a bright grin to his face. It was a piece of common ground that he would never have expected to find. It is small and unlikely to yield any friendship fruit, but it is also a pleasant surprise.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Violin," she extrapolates. The instruments are very similar, except the fiddle frequently has frets, rather than the violin which keeps its neck clear. "But I started out playin' fiddle style."

She casts him a contained glance. His enthusiasm is noted, but not reciprocated.

[Michael Carroll] "See, we should play t'gether sometime." He returns to watching the performance stage with beer in hand. The offer was made casually, his tone indicating he didn't expect to be taken up on the idea. The same way friends say they will join a gym together, or go on some exciting trip to exotic locales. It's just talk.

"Have y' been following this new construction near th' old docks then?" The pint is nearly finished. But rather than downing it and ordering another, he seems content to nurse the remainder.

[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly. "As I said, I've not played in a while." Even if the offer was not truly meant, she leaves no opportunity for it to linger.

"Just 'eard about it today," she says mildly. "Bit o' a cluster, isn't it just?"

[Michael Carroll] "No better way t' say it, I suppose." His tone is flat and quiet. At this distance, in a bar with live music, he has little concern that anyone other than Imogen can hear his words. "We had t' know our enemies were goin' t' make large scale moves eventually, an' yet it still feels like we're caught with our pants down. Y' never seen such a wild scramble t' shore up defenses."

[Imogen Slaughter] "They bloody well bought land beside the caern," like him, her voice is low.

"You're damn right you've been caught wi' yer pants down. All tha' land should ha' been bought already."

[Michael Carroll] "Yeah, well, hindsight bein' what it is I'm sure y' won't get much arguement. Th' problem now ain't what we should've done, it's what we gotta do now. Aside from making a few key property purchases before those lots get sucked into all this." He sighs heavily and finally finishes off the last of his lager. "For now we've got strict orders not t' attack outright, which should hold th' hotheads in line for all o' two days. I expect someone'll fuck that plan right in th' ass before th' week is out."

[Imogen Slaughter] She drains her glass. So much for sipping. "We ha' half-bloods with connections and talent and knowledge in th'city. They'll ha' t'get together and put together a plan. Mire th'company in paperwork. Try and get them arrested or their permits pulled or somethin', anything t'get them under a microscope and slowed down.

"Ideally, yeh want to get them arrested, then the racketeering laws come under effect. Perhaps then we can buy back th'land."

[Michael Carroll] He watches her as she lays out the framework of a strategy for dealing with the newest crisis. A grin turns up the corners of his mouth. The empty pint glass is rolled around absently in his right hand. "Wow, y' just came up wi' that off th' top o' your head like that? That's much better than th' plan I was puttin' t'gether."

[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth twists slightly as she turns in her seat, catching the 'tender's eye and lifting her glass in request. "I've done this before," she observes, immodestly.

"Also," she adds, "I found out about this a few hours ago. I've had a bit o' time t'think about it." John sets down the glass behind her, and she reaches to pick it up.

"I'll be callin' together the kinfolk," she says, almost off-hand as she takes another deep swallow of her drink.

[Michael Carroll] Michael does not order another. Instead he leans back in his seat, resting his spine against the jutting edge of the bar. A single brow arches at Imogen states her intent to gather the Kin. "So you'll be takin' th' lead o' their part in this? Aren't y' afraid that's gonna put a scab on th' nose o' that Shadow Lord woman? I can't imagine th' Kin are any more fond o' sharin' power than their Full-Blood counterparts."

[Imogen Slaughter] The red-haired kinswoman casts him a measured glance. "No," she says simply. "I'm not."

A pause. "Lukas or whatever his name is came by and told Kora t'get one o' her kinfolk t'do some searching. And tha' if she finds anything, she should get in touch wi' one o' the Liaisons. It's patently flawed t'have all the kinfolk goin' to the liaisons to pass on their messages and not talk to each other. When I suggested it, Lukas indicated tha' th'kinfolk 'coalition' has not been formed and has not chosen a leader.

"And tha' he thought it had been made clear that the expectation as tha' I would do it." Her mouth twists faintly, in irony.

"So apparently, t'avoid mass chaos and perhaps a significant risk to th'caern because 'tha' Shadow Lord woman' can only pass messages and not get people into a room, and neither can, it would seem, any Garou or other kinfolk in the city, I must do what is expected o' me."

A beat.

"Which, when yeh think o' it, is possibly a very neat trap laid by a bloody Shadow Lord." She drinks again.

[Michael Carroll] There is a clear effort to restrain amused laughter by the Irishman. He does well, simply crossing his arms over his chest as if to physically contain the sound. He cannot prevent the wide smile that breaks. "So it's a coalition now, is it? I'll have t' stop callin' y' Doctor and start callin' y' General."

He turns to deposit his empty glass on the bar as he continues. "Don't take my amusement as commentary on yourself or anythin'. I got little doubt you'll do well, it's just...yet another layer o' bueracracy. An' you right in th' middle. If y' were me, you'd be laughin' too, I'm sure."

With a grunt he rises from his seat and stretches his legs. "I know y' got a handle on things, but if y' find yourself needin' some help that I can provide, don't hesitate."

[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth twists slightly. "Coalition isn't my word. S'the word o' someone else. I'm not rather fond o' it myself."

She casts a glance at him as he gets to his feet, turning herself on the stool so that she faces the bar again. "I'll keep yeh in mind," she says.

"Ha' a good night."

[Michael Carroll] "You as well, Doctor. Thanks for th' company." He pays his tab with a handful of bills, making certain to tip generously. The next time he comes here he wants to have a beer waiting before he takes a seat. With a slight nod to Imogen, the Fianna makes his exit from the bar, passing through the door and into the night beyond.