[Imogen Slaughter] [Temple Cayce] He carries no umbrella, and instead tugs his scarf up as a makeshift hood to protect from the cold misting rain. “There are many of us among the Garou who would agree that it’s ridiculous to tell stories about you. But the stories are told, and cannot be untold. I hope I haven’t offended you. And if I have, I hope you will forgive me.”
He then falls silent, allowing for a blocks worth of travel to allow at least some of the tension to ease. Only to ask more prying questions. “Do you believe you will be attacked again? I mean, did you begin carrying the weapon before, or after, your storied battle?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s mouth twists slightly.
“Firstly, I imagine tha’ the reasons th’Garou who believe it is ridiculous to tell stories of a Kinfolk,” there is a weight added to the word, an eloquent point made by the stressor, if only in her own mind, “have very different reasons than I. Secondly, you ha’ not offended me.”
The block passes before he asks more questions. Shaded beneath her umbrella, the fine line of her face moves slightly as her jaw tightens, a tendon showing itself, then receding.
“I don’t know what story you ha’ heard,” she says. “So I can’t answer that question. Before or after. S’been years since I started t’carry it.”
A pause. Then, “As fer the rest,” she shrugs, “I imagine I’ll be attacked again. I’ve been told tha’ I am -” a distinct pause, this time to allow for a twist of her mouth, a mark of her distaste, “visible to those of the full-blood persuasion.”
[Temple Cayce] He nods, hands clasped behind his back as they walk and converse. “Quite visible, yes.”
He leaves it at that. There is another long silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps and the usual nightly activities in the Southside slums. A dog barks at the pair as they pass a fenced off junkyard, rushing the chained gates in a display of canine bravado. Temple does not jump, instead glancing casually at the familiar sight. “Every night I walk past this place on the way to my bike. Every night that mutt charges the gate. You think by now he’d have realized nothing in there interests me.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen turns her head sharply toward the sound of a furious canine, the sound of his jaws and body hitting the chain link fence, straining to get through.
She does not jump either, though tension had moved transiently through her body, gone, now faded, the rapid beating of her heart beginning to slow.
She turns her attention back.
The twist of her mouth is wry, almost cutting, “What,” she says, “yeh think the way he feels yer Rage will change because you’ve never done him any harm?”
The rain has begun to slow, at least enough that her umbrella can be dispensed with. She lowers it, reaching down with one hand to thumb the catch, sliding it shut, and shaking it before she wraps it shut with the strap. It’s still misting, but not entirely unpleasantly. The dampness catches in the flaming fire of her hair, beads on the shoulders of her leather coat.
[Maija] [Open for another, or ew no yew gittout? :) ]
to Imogen Slaughter, Temple Cayce
[Imogen Slaughter] (open scene!)
to Maija, Temple Cayce
[Temple Cayce] As she closes the umbrella, he turns his dark gaze over his shoulder to watch the dog a moment longer. A quiet sigh and he shakes his head in response to her question. “No, I suppose not. It just feels strange to me. When I was a kid, I performed community service in an old vet clinic near Cabrini-Green. The dogs were my favorite part. I’d take them out, throw a ball around…they loved it. I used to think they loved me, too. But when I think about it now it seems they always did shy from me a bit. As if they wanted to play with me but were afraid I’d kick them at any moment.”
His eyes move to her again, brow furrowing as he watches her movements, her facial expressions. “Did you always want to be a doctor? Is this what you saw your life being when you were a kid, or even close to it?”
[Maija] Imogen is, as she’s been told, distinctly obvious to those born True due to the purity of the blood in her veins. Maija has no such problems, which is something that aids her in her ability to hide without notice, from many.
Except Kemp. Who showed up randomly to walk her home and join her for a meal. Weird.
That’s neither here nor there, though – what is here not there is the too skinny streetrat, swallowed in the fleece of an oversized hoodie, with a backpack slung over her shoulder, sitting on the back of a random bus bench, her feet on the seat, her torso hovering over the book in her hand. In the misting rain.
[Imogen Slaughter] His small tidbits of life garner little more than an acknowledging sound in the back of her throat. Imogen loops her hand into her umbrella’s strap and swaps her brief case to that hand, freeing her hand to root through her handbag. She retrieves from it a bronze cigarette case, flipping it open, and thumbing free a cigarette which she lifts to her mouth. She manages it one handed with experience – a long-time smoker who is accustomed to carrying such things as brief cases, bags, & cetera.
Her cigarette case disappears into her purse, and she finds her zippo, thumbing the wheel to produce flame, touching it to the tip of the fag, lighting up.
This creates a pause between his question and her answer. She does not seem to mind that she keeps him waiting.
“No,” she says finally, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth, turning her head slightly so it doesn’t blow his way. “It never really occurred to me tha’ I could be anything.”
A sideways glance before she deigns to offer a slight explanation, “I am good at what I do,” she says, “but it was never my dream.”
[Temple Cayce] “I suppose that’s a familiar story in this world. Never realizing you can be something, and when you actually do become something it’s not what you expected or even wanted. It’s shocking how comfortable someone can become with a sense of inevitability. Or mediocrity.” He spots Maija, only because he’s become used to finding Kinfolk sitting alone on benches in the shadiest parts of town. “My God it’s as if personal safety isn’t a cocern of one person in this city. Isn’t that your friend Maija? The angry looking one?”
He lifts a hand to point, then returns it to rest behind his back. “That can’t be very good for the book she’s reading.”
[Temple Cayce] ((Sorry guys, I’m so distracted. Stuffing my face))
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s eyebrow lifts higher. “Are you callin’ me mediocre,” she enquires mildly, “Or sayin’ tha’ I’ve succumbed to the inevitable?”
A glance toward Maija as the distance closes. “She lives in th’area, I believe,” she says. “I imagine a small amount of complacency fer safety is to be expected.”
[Maija] It certainly isn’t a safe part of town – but then again, she’s not exactly unarmed either. Knowledge is the best weapon, right? And she’s reading and…
…Yeah, that’s not how she’s armed, and she doesn’t seem to care that it’s not exactly good for the book she’s reading. It’s a one dollar bargain bin mystery novel, that isn’t very good anyway. The butler probably did it. The butler ALWAYS does it.
She is aware of her surroundings though, and as the distance closes between the walkers and her bench, she glances up, quickly. Then she finishes the page and marks her place, before she sits up, shoving the book into the pocket of her hoodie.
[Temple Cayce] “I suppose my statement was a bit of a generalization. But if it makes you feel any better I’m not saying anything about you that I’m not saying about myself.” His hand lifts in greeting to Maija, the course adjusted to bring himself and Imogen closer to the hooded girl. “Complacency kills just as surely as heart disease. Isn’t the cost of safety eternal vigilance? Or is that freedom? I confuse the two.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen regards Templeton as he explains. Several seconds pass. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re getting at,” she says bluntly.
“The only quote I know is from yer J.F.K.”
By now, they’ve reached Maija, and the pale-skinned, red-haired kinfolk turns her head to look at the girl. “Maija,” she greets her.
[Maija] She lifts a hand to push back her hood – something she would not have done when she first arrived, something she would not have done even three months ago. Her fingers are slender, pale, and undoubtedly chilled as she lets the hood drop and tucks her hand back into the pocket of her hoodie.
“Hey.” is her return greeting, and Temple is included in it with a slight nod. “What brings ya to slum it round here today?”
[Temple Cayce] “I’m saying the minute you get comfortable…never mind.” He simply drops it, his face brightening into his usual friendly smile. Mostly for Maijas benefit, just on the off chance she warms to him on their second meeting. A gloved hand comes up to wipe a bit of moisture away from his face. He responds to the girls question for Imogen and himself. “I volunteer at the methadone clinic a few blocks back, and Dr Slaughter was kind enough to meet me out here to administer an exam. Then we thought it was such a lovely night we may as well go for a walk.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen casts a brief glance toward Templeton and his reply. One would have a hard time imagining Imogen choosing to go for a walk on a nice day. Or on a day with rain such as this.
As it is, though, she doesn’t bother to offer a correction.
“Been waitin’ fer the bus long?”
[Schala Tenkawa] Schala huffs as she walks towards the bus stop. She had missed the transit for the Institute before they closed the gates to visitors. She walked along the broken cracks of the pavement, muttering as she stuck her hand into her pockets. She glanced up, making a face at the rain as well, her hood covering her head so her hair didn’t get soaked. She hated covering up her hair. It was the only way people noticed her. Otherwise, it was *bump* ‘oops, sorry, didn’t see you there’ and other such comments.
Dammit…I shouldn’t have mentioned nachos earlier today….I still want some.
[Maija] (Mei made me lose my post!)
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (*whistles*)
[Maija] She’s not one who warms up to many. Not to anyone at all, quickly. As such, Temple’s bright smile doesn’t get one in return from the careful kin – she hides too much, too easily, and has for too long. But she doesn’t run screaming into the night. So thats… something.
Instead, she nods to his explanation, a bare dip of her chin, and then answers Imogen’s question. “Not so much waitin’ as just gettin off my feet for a bit. Lunch rush was fuckin’ nuts.”
[Temple Cayce] “You know, Lonna Larson is passing around a petition regarding the horrible shape of the public transit system. Missed stops, buses never showing up, the smell…it’s probably better that you aren’t waiting.” He moves carefully around a large puddle, positioning himself so that he forms a triangle with Maija to his right and Imogen to his left. He doesn’t notice Schalas approach, focused as he is on the conversation at hand. “Do you work in a restaurant? You mentioned the lunch rush..”
[Page from Mei] hi everyone, I am making chat configuration changes. PLEASE DO NOT POST BETWEEN 7:46 and 7:48 or you may risk losing your posts.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (we’re safe now, everyone)
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s gaze moves slightly from Maija to Templeton, her hand lowering, cigarette caught between her fingers to tap ash toward the ground. She lifts the cigarette again, speaking before she fits the filter between her lips.
“Best o’ luck to Lonna Larson,” she says simply, in a tone that suggests she does not hold out much hope for such a petition.
[Maija] She snorts. It’s a brief sound, but a reaction none the less. “Ain’t no petition gonna do any fuckin’ good in th’ buses that’ll hit this area a’town.” Her accent is a conglomeration of everywhere, and no where, and a lot of bad grammar, sprinkled with swear words. It makes it almost impossible to tell where she’s from. It’s likely something that started out on purpose, then just became a regular speech pattern. It’s just something else that makes her drastically different from the fire-haired kinfolk that completes this little threesome.
“Yeah. Family BBQ.” It’s a good job, with a good boss that doubles as her landlord. It’s proof that good people can be found in a city this large – even if it means living in Bronzeville to find them.
[Temple Cayce] He crosses his arms at their reaction to the petition, his smile turning fluidly into an amused smirk. A dark eyebrow arches as he chuckles. “So, it’s better not to bother passing around the petition? That’s what I was talking about when I spoke of accepting inevitability. You have to admit, it’s at the very least more noble to try and fail than to just sit on your ass and piss about the world never getting any better.”
[Schala Tenkawa] Schala pauses, looking at the sign that’s had enough graffiti to be worth a brick wall in paint, layers of spray and tagging over cute little catch phrases or attempts to write something over the other for some new genius of immature word alignment. Was this the place for the bus stop? She glanced to the three standing there…squinting a little. They could easily be commuters as well though the red head smelled. Not stunk. But she had a scent…an air…a quality that made Imogen think she was in a conference call from hell with…another tribal. That’s what it felt like to her.
She shifted her satchel, glancing at the sky and scowling at the rain as if giving it the dirty eye would suddenly make it cease.
Though it should. It should totally heed me. Obey and you shall…get things. What would rain want anyway? Maybe a slip and slide? Oh wait…it sorta makes that naturally on it own…
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s mouth twists slightly.
“You assume far too much, Mister Cayce,” is all she says.
She turns her head to blow cigarette smoke away from the pair. Schala catches her eyes. Imogen, a slight woman with flaming bright hair and perfectly pale skin, allows her gaze to linger on the Garou, her attention briefly parting from two with whom she stands.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (sorry guys, I’m doing some Jove-type stuff on the side and I lost track of posting order)
[Maija] “Nobility’s for pussies, an’ I ain’t jus’ sit on m’ass an’ bitch. I work for a livin.” And she resents the implication, that much is clear as she turns her attention to digging out a battered pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her hoody, placing a cigarette between her lips before searching for an equally busted looking bic.
She sets flame to tobacco and paper, and inhales deeply, turning her head on exhale out of a natural smoker’s politeness, keeping the smoke from the rest of them. She tucks her cigarette back into her pocket. and glances at Schala, then back to the others. Aware, always, of her surroundings and those in it.
[Temple Cayce] “If I make assumptions it’s only because I have little else to work with, Dr Slaughter.” The smirk has returned to a good humored smile, his attention focused back to Maija. “All I’m saying is that the world would benefit greatly if more of it’s inhabitants thought the way Ms Larson does. Small services to the public can help lift a community. It just seems as if alot of people have given up on their neighbors.”
[Schala Tenkawa] Schala glanced over again, eying the three…not noticing Imogen eying her. She glanced at height level…rocked on her sneakers…then tried to stand on tip-toe. Not even close. She snorted, wondering if elevator shoes would even make her feel somewhat tall or make her look ridiculous. Her hand idly went to the strap of her bag…not having the social prop of a cigarette, going back to rocking on her heels slightly like a little kid fidgeting when told to stay still.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen is, in fact, a slight woman – petite in her body-type. She is not, of course, as short as Schala, but still, slight enough, a few inches over five feet in her modestly heeled shoes.
Schala doesn’t notice Imogen eyeing her. And after several seconds, the kinwoman turns away and back.
“Either o’ you two met her?” she enquires mildly, a tilt of her head over her shoulder indicating the mini-woman. The subject of which is great interest and likely passion for Templeton, is ignored.
[Maija] Assume. “Makin an ass outa u n me then, ain’tcha.” She bites back the rest of her comment, and glances at Imogen, then beyond her to the blue haired kid.
“Not me.”
[Temple Cayce] “I’ve never seen her before.” He watches the tiny girl thoughtfully. Her Rage is faint, like his, but still there. Its like a tickle on the back of his neck rather than a pounding in his temples.
[Schala Tenkawa] Schala is generally oblivious. But even someone daft can feel more then one set of eyes on her. She looked skywards for a moment, as if expecting a pair of eyes the size of UFOs staring down at her…but finding nothing…they dart around…and then finally to the two next to Imogen.
“….something on my face?’
She reaches up self-consciously.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “I don’t imagine so,” Imogen says, turning slightly to speak to Schala, but not enough to admit her into their triangle of conversation.
“You’re Garou. I wondered if anyone ha’ met yeh before. As the answer is no, I am now wondering why you were hovering nearby.”
[Maija] She’s tense. She’s controlling it well, though, as the rage is less than some she has been in contact with. It is not the heavy press of Decker Rohl, that near suffocates her, but more of a realization, and a faint press of -thiscouldbebad-.
She watches Schala, and takes another drag, her hand falling to the side to flick the ashes to the side to fall to the walk as she exhales.
[Temple Cayce] He sighs quietly at Imogens statement, eyes closing for just a moment before returning to Schalas face. The teenager watches her expressions carefully. She may have a very slight rage, but there’s still a great potential for violence if she’s easily offended. She is Garou, after all.
[Schala Tenkawa] That actually made her take a step back. For a furball of doom, she’s more spooked at Imogen just outing her like that. Then she points towards the graffiti tainted sign near along the sidewalk.
“….bus stop?”
She doesn’t refute being Garou. In truth, she really doesn’t know how to respond to a query like that. C:/cd d… D:…not found…
[Maija] She glances at the garou, then back at the other two and there’s a quick sound of amusement. Shocker – she’s waitin’ for the bus.
“What line ya lookin for? Next one don’t hit here for another 20 minutes or so.”
She isn’t often so helpful. Maybe Imogen is rubbing off on her. Gaia help everyone if that happens.
[Temple Cayce] “If it hits at all.” He speaks quietly, though he is considerably more relaxed when the situation doesn’t turn ugly. In the moments it took for the conversation to unfold, he had edged just a step closer to Imogen. Whether it was deliberate or not, he realizes now the triangle has been disturbed and moves to re-establish it. “I’m Temple Cayce. Crescent of the Children. Yourself?”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s eyes flick upward toward the sign, then down again, her eyebrow arching.
Maija asks for what line the girl is looking for. Templeton seeks an introduction. Now, Imogen says nothing.
[Schala Tenkawa] “Uh..whichever hits back towards Little Asia…er…Chinatown.”
She definitely wasn’t a local. Her hand that had gone to touch her face is now back at the strap as she looked between the three and then at Temple. She didn’t like the idea of calling a cab…or walking for that matter.
“Uh….do we really have to do that here? I really hate this sorta stuff.”
She sighs, but has a feeling he won’t cave in on the matter.
“Schala….but some call me SC. Guess you could sorta call me a technowitch.”
[Maija] “Bout 40 for that one. Faster t’walk – s’only bout a mile that’a’way t’hit Chinatown.”
A beat and it slides into Garou introductions. “You hate it.” Maija slides her free hand back through her hair, then reaches for her hood to pull it up again. She doesn’t pull it down to cover her face though – at least, not yet. She’s thin, too thin, and a shiver works it’s way across her shoulders, through her torso, as she shifts her position on the back of the bench slightly.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Imogen’s eyebrow arches as Schala says she hates the introductions. Her gaze moves over the street, empty for now, then slides back. She is still, so far, silent. She lifts her cigarette to her mouth and fits it between her lips, drawing a deep inhale. Her head turns away to exhale, blowing smoke so that it does not blow into the face of either Garou or kinfolk.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (Banx went AFK. Posting again!)
“I don’t believe there is anyone to hear you,” she says, her voice low to Schala. “Yeh can likely gi’ yer full introduction without bein’ over heard.”
[Schala Tenkawa] Schala makes a slight face at that.
“….do I gotta?”
It was almost like a little kid whining before she sighs.
“…Schala Tenkawa….known as Short Circuit….G-Double-U Shaman…Cliath….Metis. And before you ask…a Ragabash thought it would make a cute deed name. Its why I just prefer the name I chose or SC for short.”
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Do I gotta? Schala almost whines.
Imogen’s eyebrow lifts even higher. “Yes, I believe you do.” Her tone is rather mild.
“I’m Imogen Slaughter,” she offers in return, “Kinfolk.” No tribal affiliations or adornments for her. Then again, her flaming hair and blood marks her loudly as Fianna. Perhaps it is unnecessary.
[Maija] She blinks, and glances at Imogen. She’s never heard a garou… whine… before. Not about introductions.
“Johnny 5 is alive.”
Maija has a fondness for old classic movies. “Maija.” It’s the full extent of her introduction.
[Temple Cayce] He seems surprised at Schalas feelings on introduction, his own brow arching to match Imogens expression. His mouth opens for a moment, then shuts as the good doctor takes the words right from it. Formalities were an everyday part of Garou life, and an appropriate introduction was usually step one. Once that step was officially out of the way he relaxes even further. “It’s nice to meet you Schala. Have you been in the city long?”
[Schala Tenkawa] “Close to a month but not quite there. Getting acclimated….settled in. Its sorta…culture shock but not quite.”
She glanced around.
“…its different…being outside.”
She looks back to Maija.
“…sadly, I wasn’t named for an 80s sci-fi.”
[Maija] Sadly she wasn’t named for 80s sci-fi. Maija lifts a skinny shoulder in a shrug, it makes no difference to her. S’what she’d claim, if it was her name, but well, Maija has a sense of humor. She just rarely shows it.
If ever.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] “Being outside,” Imogen echoes, her head tilting in suggested question. Another drag of her cigarette and the fag is done. She drops it to the ground, crushing it out beneath the toe of her shoe.
[Temple Cayce] He stands there mutely as he listens to Schala speak and Imogen parrot. The expression on his face can only be described as a mask of awkward discomfort. Finally, it’s as much as the young Theurge can take. “You know, it’s been a long day. That exam has taken a toll on me, and I’m sure it couldn’t have been a pleasant way to spend your day Dr Slaughter. If you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to head on to my bike. May I walk you to your car Dr Slaughter?”
[Schala Tenkawa] She scuffs her sneaker a little, glancing back to the older woman.
“Yeah…I didn’t live on a sept. Or anything most of our kind are use to. Its not classified so I can talk about it I guess. I lived in sort of a wayward home for metis. Or rather a place where they sent anyone within the tribe that just didn’t function well on the outside.”
[Maija] “Weird.” To say the least.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] A sideways glance to Templeton as he speaks, another glance at Schala as she explains, only perhaps not to the redhaired kinwoman’s satisfaction.
Still, she steps back from the park bench, casting a glance over her shoulder in the direction she needed to head.
“I hope both yer buses arrive shortly.” Or at all.
It serves as her farewell. She turns and starts away. Should Templeton follow, she casts him a glance as she settles her coat about her body. “It’s not necessary for you to be my escort,” she says, her voice low enough not to be overheard by the two whom they are leaving.
[Temple Cayce] He nods a silent farewell to Schala and Maija, then moves to catch up with Imogen. He doesn’t offer her his arm, though he is sorely tempted. “Then you can be my escort Dr Slaughter.” He walks with her through the streets, resuming their initial course to a nearby parking lot. It won’t take long before they disappear from sight…
[Maija] Speaking of – there’s hers now, rounding the corner. “Later, Imogen. Temple.” She idly wonders if Imogen had told him what she said about his name, but doesn’t bring it up herself. Instead, she takes a final drag off her cigarette, and flicks it to the ground. She climbs down from her perch on the back of the bench, and crushes the butt under the toe of her boot, before digging out her bus pass.
She glances back at Schala. “They runnin bout 10 minutes late tonight. Yours’ll be here soon. Route 21.”
And with that, she swings up the steps into the bus, pays her fair and finds her seat. Time to head home.