[Imogen Slaughter] A patio amidst the bustle and hustle of the Mile. A pint glass of beer on the table, a half eaten lunch. A bag from Nordstrom’s at her feet – chocolate brown pumps, half draped by the hem of her beige slacks. A matching suit jacket, and a dark brown silk blouse, she is in autumn colours. It is cool enough that she has draped her jacket over her shoulders, her arms still free of the sleeves, one hand holding a book open on the table, the other, holding a cigarette loosely between her index and forefinger. Her attention has been away from it long enough that a sheaf of ash has gathered at the tip, beginning to slowly curve with the weight of gravity.
Her head is bent to her book, her neck bare except for a few tendrils of flaming hair, the mass of which is swept up from her face and held in place by a clip and several bobby pins.
Due to the weather, she’s alone out here. The floor boards beneath her feet are well cared for, fine quality wood. The bar is somewhat new, the style a little amorphous. Sometimes it plays celtic music, sometimes it plays rock. It serves beers, and good martinis, a few house wines. The food is good quality, from traditional pub fare to more on the healthful, organic side. Her plate appeared to have once held a salad and a sandwich of sorts. Only a few pieces of arugula, the multigrain crusts of her sandwich and a few shreds of iceburg lettuce and meat remain of her meal.
She turns the page, and lifts her cigarette absently to the ashtray, tapping it before lifting it back to her mouth.
[Maija] In the mile, one Dr. Imogen Slaughter looks like she belongs. She is well dressed, well spoken, completely put together in ways that certain streetrats could never hope to accomplish. She stands out, polished and beautiful.
In stark contrast, one such streetrat is making her way down the street, and her only polish is in the ability blend in, not cause any undo notice, to move from shadow to shadow in a strangely graceful pattern. Beat to hell boots scuff the cement, the denim of her too-long and loose jeans fray behind her heel. An oversized hoodie dwarfs her way too skinny frame, though – unlike when she first arrived – the hood is down, her dishwater blond hair falling back over her shoulders uncontained. Whe she first met Ryan, her hair hung to her waist. She had cut it while on the run, and now it is slowly regaining some of it’s length, falling to her shoulderblades, free of a band, or even any styling products. If anything, Maija has very simple tastes – if it can be argued she has taste at all.
The movement at the table as she walks by brings her attention to the redhead, and her cigarette. Recognizing the first, and jonesin’ for the second, she actually stops at the patio railing and clears her throat lightly. “Hey. Can I bum one-a them?”
[Imogen Slaughter] She turns her head at the sound of Maija’s throat clearing, lifting it and allowing her book to half fall closed, revealing the back, the words indecipherable by distance.
She regards the younger kinfolk for several seconds, then simply sets her book face down on the table, picking up the bronze-plated cigarette case. She fits her own fag between her lips before opening the case, plucking a single cigarette out between pale, long fingers. She passes it, then the zippo over.
“Bit young to buy yer own, I imagine.”
[Maija] She glances at the book curiously, because books are her one guilty pleasure. She has nothing of value in her apartment but for the boxes of books she salvaged from Will’s things when he disappeared. All of her stuff fits in a backpack – the boxes of books take up an entire wall. She is making her way through them all, one by one, slowly. Even the tough to swallow ones – like… law stuff.
She can’t tell what Imogen is reading though, and doesn’t stare. She does, however, nod slightly as the kinfolk comments. “Yeah.” She takes the offered cigarette and lighter, and tips her head down to light it, cupping the flame to protect it from the breeze. A deep inhale later, and she hands the zippo back, turns her head to exhale, and then meets Imogen’s gaze briefly. “Thanks.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen buys luxury cigarettes – and the punch of nicotine is perhaps at once smoother and harsher than the brands Maija is used to. A different flavour to the smoke. A different hit in the lungs.
She takes another drag, filling her lungs and turning her head away as she blows smoke. Tendrils of hair have made it down by her ear. She lifts her free hand to brush them back behind the cusp absently.
“When did yeh start?” the question is absent as she puts the cigarette down on the ashtray’s lip, her retreating hand picking up her beer instead.
[Maija] It is different – though she’s bummed from a lot of different folks, it’s likely the fanciest cigarette she’s ever had. She even looks at it curiously, as she lowers her hand. As she does so, Imogen might notice the abrasions on her palm – looks like road rash, to be honest. Scraped but healing well enough. The other hand, which is tucked back into the pocket of her hoodie, has a matching set of marks – a two for one deal, if you will. Seems like every time Imogen sees the scrawny kin, there’s some sort of injury in healing stages. Some would call Maija a magnet for trouble because of it.
But back to the question. “Couple years ago when I was hitchin cross-country. Ain’t do it steady like, but some days..” Some days one needs a vice. And her weed is at home.
Maija turns slightly, facing the other woman, but not completely, keeping her gaze on the street – ever watchful, even as she leans a hip on a railing support. It’s the move of someone well used to being on her feet for hours at a time, comfort found in the slightest shift of balance.
[Imogen Slaughter] She takes a swallow of beer, setting it down evenly and casting an eye skyward. The moon is pale and glowing through the heavy cloud cover. It has looked like rain all day.
“Hm.” A sound of agreement, or perhaps simply acknowledgement. Some days.
Imogen quits from time to time. It always seems that she returns to it.
Her eyes move and lower to Maija’s hand, briefly touching the abrasions, then lifts again, strafing to her ashtray, leaning forward to pick up her cigarette again.
“If yeh’re goin’ t’smoke wi’ me, yeh might as well sit.” It’s something like an invitation.
[Maija] It’s something of an invitation, and Maija glances up to meet Imogen’s gaze briefly, before looking down and away. Habit. However, against habit, she actually nods. “Yeah, alright.”
Then, rather than going around (because… why?) she moves down a bit, places her cigarette between her teeth, plants both hands on the top railing, and hops over it, with a rattle and wooden complaint. Everything settles to silence again, but for the scrape of the chair as she pulls it back, and the settling of her thin form on it. She props one foot on the seat, and leans forward to make use of the ashtray, before settling back again. She examines her hands, and plucks a bit of dirt out of her left palm, before rubbing it on her jeans and settling back into her chair.
“Whatcha readin?” Sometimes curiosity gets the best of even her.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s eyes move, tracking the girl as she takes a seat, then lift again to fit her cigarette between her lips. She is mid-inhale as Maija asks her question and instead of answering immediately, turns the book over so its face up.
The Memorable Thoughts of Socrates by Xenophon, says the book. It’s cover bears the bust of what one presumes is the venerable philosopher.
The red-haired kin woman’s mouth twitches around her cigarette. “Bit o’ light reading,” she says, dryly.
[Maija] She leans forward to look at the book, blink, and then deadpans. “Ah, read it.”
Before lips curl into something of a smirk that almost might grow up someday to be a REAL expression, if it ever lives that long. It’s gone almost too soon to tell though, as she shakes her head. “Ok, I’ve seen it, but ain’t read it. Was one of th’ones I had t’left behind when rescuin’ a friends book collection from his asshole landlady. He had all sorta stuff like that.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Read it, Maija deadpans, and Imogen’s eyebrow lifts upward slightly in question.
“Hm,” this a sound of more acknowledgement than anything else. She turns the book back over, setting it back on her side of the table. “Not particularly yer cup o’ tea, then?”
[Maija] She shakes her head slightly. “It ain’t that, exactly, it’s just.. well, ain’t light readin for me. Takes time an’ commitment t’get through shit like that. Take it in slow bits, an’ I get through it soon enough, but gotta relax with somethin’ easier in between.”
There’s reasons behind it, of course. By her grammar it’s obvious she’s no scholar, by her age and the way she’s been on the run, it’s clear she certainly didn’t finish high school – and possibly not Jr. High either. Then there’s her past with the Nation. It’s likely lucky she is able to read at all, even slowly.
A skinny shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Love t’read an’ study, but ain’t so quick at it.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s mouth moves slightly – a faint suggestion of a smirk. “I imagine that Socrates is not particularly ‘light’ readin’ fer anyone.”
A pause. “I’ll lend it you, if yeh want.”
[Maija] She takes a drag off the cigarette, and then turns her head to the side to exhale, before leaning forward to tap the ashes into the tray. When she leans back, there’s a ghost of a smile that appears briefly.
“Thanks. When ya done, of course. I ain’t able t’get a library card yet. Waitin’ for some ID issues t’clear up.” Like, you know, getting one that matches the name she uses.
[Imogen Slaughter] A brief shake of her head, and she pushes the book over. “I’ve read it before,” a faint smirk. “I daresay I’ll find somethin’ else t’bide my time.”
[Maija] She glances up, and then reaches to take the book, with a care that makes it obvious that books to this kin are something treasured. She sets it in front of herself, and slides her fingers over the cover, before settling back once more. She looks up to meet Imogen’s gaze, something she doesn’t do often or easily, and then nods. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
And she does, that much is clear.
[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly. “S’a book.” Apparently, the meaning to the doctor is a little less than it is to Maija. It may have something to do with money – after all, should Maija never return the book, Imogen can always buy another without much damage to her pocketbook.
“Don’t mention it.” Another drag of her cigarette, then she leans forward, crushing it out.
[Maija] There’s a world of difference between the two kin – from their backgrounds, dress, right down to the blood that runs pure in Imogen, and barely tags notice with Maija. Different tribes, different lifestyles, different hardships – but a shared desire to read Socrates.
Imogen says don’t mention it, and she doesn’t. She just nods, and takes a drag off the cigarette, turning her head to blow the smoke away from their table, and glance at the street at the same time. Part of her still expects, every moment, for something bad to happen, to jump at them, to attack. From her past, from the corner store, from under the patio even – it’s bound to happen sooner or later.
She’s quiet for a while. She seems comfortable in the silence, not feeling the weight of necessary conversation. And then. “How’s Decker? Ain’t had him growl my way in a while…”
Just idle curiosity. Everyone else she knows disappears or dies – since he ain’t been around, it’s not all that unlikely to her that he’s done the same.
[Imogen Slaughter] The kinwoman’s eyebrow moves slightly, a flicker of attention.
“He was whole when I saw him last.” A faint twist of her mouth, “Yeh’d have t’ask him yerself if he’s well, though. I’ve not seen much o’ him o’ late.”
[Maija] A slight sound, that seems to be the birth of a chuckle. “Better than th’alternative, that. Since I moved, I ain’t seen much a’no one, so was curious, s’all.” She knows she likely doesn’t have to explain, but she does anyway.
Though she isn’t exactly unhappy to be left relatively alone, even though – as Imogen has seen – Maija jumps in to help whenever she is near, and it’s needed, without complaint. With her luck, they’ll soon discover the Family BBQ place has the best ribs in town, and they’ll all hang out next door to her again.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s eyebrow quirks upward, “Based on what I’ve seen, I’d ha’ thought you’d prefer it that way, wouldn’t yeh? Garou, leavin’ yeh alone.”
[Maija] “Majority of’em, yeah.” She rubs her nose briefly with her fingertips, and then tucks her hair behind her ear, watching the last bits of her cigarette before she lifts it to take a final drag, and stretch forward to tamp it out in the tray, exhaling to the side as she does so. She leans back and tucks her hands into the pocket of her hoody.
“They’s been a couple I ain’t mind so much after a while a bein here. Th’one nice thing bout livin at the brotherhood was that ya always knew what was goin down, so knew what and where to avoid shit. Now it pops out atcha unexpected like. Ain’t so good on the nerves. Though, granted, jus’ bein round th’lot o’em ain’t good on my nerves either. But Decker – I dunno. Even bein like he is, he ain’t give me th’feelin he wanted t’break me. Wahya neither.”
And those two couldn’t be more different if they tried, hm? “Then when they disappear, it’s sudden like… wonderin where they been.” She smirks slightly and looks up. “but not enough t’go find ’em myself.”
… basically? The kid’s lonely as hell.
[Imogen Slaughter] She eyes the girl – for really, that’s what Maija is, younger than Kemp, whom she still sees as incredibly young, still remembers, first as the thirteen year old whose arm she’d bandaged. It’s the kind of regard which is perceptive, dark eyed, considering, thoughtful.
“He’s still around,” she says eventually. “Though I’ve not seen Wahya in several weeks.” A slight, vague shrug. “That said, I don’t keep track.”
[Maija] She nods, slight and sharp. “Good. Bout Decker, I mean.” about Wahya, she takes a slow breath, and then looks out over the street. She’s quiet for a while. “He – Wahya – said he was goin somewhere, t’protect me. He ain’t come back. Looks like it ain’t gone so good.”
Which means her stay in Chicago might be coming to an end. Wahya didn’t say what was after her, but it was enough that he screamed her name in terror until he found her safe and unhurt. “I know ya ain’t keep track – but if ya hear anythin’ bout’im would ya let me know?”
[Imogen Slaughter] A nod answers the question. Then, “Yeh want me t’tell him yeh’re lookin’ fer him, if I see him?”
[Maija] She nods, slightly. “I’d appreciate it. Seems everytime I find someone I kin talk too – they disappear or get killt. It’s enough t’make a girl wonder sometimes…” It’s said with a trace of amusement under her words.
[Imogen Slaughter] There isn’t truly amusement in Imogen’s eyes, not as she arches an eyebrow, “I imagine that has more t’do with th’longevity o’ the full-bloods,” she says, “rather than their relation wi’ you.”
[Maija] She laughs. It’s brief and quick and really hardly an actual laugh, but it’s there. “I know. Ain’t so important even in my own eyes t’think otherwise.” Besides, if her past catches up with her, they aren’t gonna take the time to torture her slow by cutting down those she befriends. There’s much more effective ways to torture one too-thin gnawer kin.
She should get some normal friends. Though how she’d explain the constant injuries makes that a problem too. She’ll settle for random cigarettes with random Kinfolk. Seems safer. Easier. Even when it’s not easy at all.
[Imogen Slaughter] There isn’t much else to say that, more than a sound of acknowledgement. Imogen regards Maija for several seconds, still. Thoughtful.
“What happened t’yer hands?”
She picks up her pint glass and takes a deep swallow of amber beer.
[Maija] SHe looks down at her hands, as if she’d forgotten, and then with a slight smirk. “I went out after work – hitchhiked home. Guy got grabby. Slowed down at a light, an I bailed from the car.” She holds her hands up, palms outward for a better look and then shrugs. “Not much more than scrapes – banged up my knee a bit. Detective fella I know was in th’diner an saw me bail. Did the doctorin all careful like.”
Though she could have done it herself. Sometimes, a guy just has to take care of a gal, though.
[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyebrow arches. “Perhaps next time, yeh should take the bus,” she suggests mildly. “More witnesses.”
[Maija] She nods, and rubs her palms along the denim across her thigh. “True ’nuff. Though the busses round here late night? Whole nother buncha scary fuckers there. It’s a crap shoot either way, really.”
[Imogen Slaughter] She tilts her head slightly. “Carry mace.”
[Maija] She nods. “That legal here? Some places it ain’t. Not that it stops me from carryin my blades round none… just so’s I’d know where t’find it.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Her mouth twists slightly. “I believe mace is only illegal in nightclubs or somethin’. But even if it is.” A faint shrug. “So is rape. Don’t get caught.”
Imogen is technically an officer of the court. She is obligated to follow a certain code.
Human laws. Human rules. She follows them as they suit.
[Maija] She nods, slightly. “Words t’live by.” Don’t get caught, she means.
Life is a complex yet simple game of survival for Maija – survive each day, and hope that she’ll survive another, though realistically? she has no hope that she will continue to wake up each morning completely whole.
[Imogen Slaughter] Words to live by. “They are,” a faint smirk touches her mouth.
A few droplets of rain begin to fall. Imogen glances upward warily. “I should go,” she says, getting to her feet, readjusting her coat so she can slide her arms in. She picks up her purse from the ground and slides it open her arm.
A lift of her chin indicates the book. “Enjoy th’book,” she says, then turns, walking around to the patio steps – her exit much more sedate than Maija’s entrance when she’d joined her.
[Maija] Imogen gets up and gathers her things, while Maija remains seated. She nods, slightly, as she turns to go – exiting much more stately and normally than Maija entered. “G’night Imogen. Thanks.”
A bit after she leaves, Maija stands as well, and makes her way to the sidewalk, to start her own long walk home.