“Shit man, ya probably don’t want my contacts. But that guy that just left might give ya a big ole kiss if ya told him that shit.”
Snickering as he flicked the card.
“I’ll pass it along.”
[Moira Tasgall] “Habeas Corpus…” Moira muses over the name, quirking an eyebrow at Imogen as she sees the faint smirk. “That’s Latin isn’t it?”
[Scott Blackmon] As he makes his way to the register, he bumps into another patron. He brushes the mans coat with hurried and sincere-sounding apologies, then moves on to pay for his meal. But not before glancing back at the “dinner party” and holding a wallet aloft with a proud grin and a wink. “Don’t worry guys, it’s on me!”
He hands the girl behind the counter a large bill, telling her to keep the change and making a quick exit.
[Imogen Slaughter] She nods, pouring sugar into the black, bitter liquid. “It means ‘you have the body’. S’a legal term.” she says, watching Scott walk to the cash with his stolen money. “I don’t know if yeh noticed th’ tattoos on his face,” the kinwoman’s hand lifts touching her own cheekbone for emphasis, the same location where tattooed tears had been visible on Blackmon, “but they’re -” a distinct pause for irony, “prison-issue.”
[Kemp] “Heh. Must be a full moon. They’re coming out of the wood work. First Luis and then mister prison fingers. Do I look like I got answers for everyone?”
[Moira Tasgall] Prison!? “…..”
Moira sucks in a breath of air, twisting in the chair to watch Scott make his hasty departure and reaches out for her handbag to open it. She checks its contents for her wallet, pulling that out and lets out a small sigh.
“Just lovely,” she lets out a soft snort, replying to Kemp, “We could renamed you Mr. Yellow Pages.”
[Kemp] “Yeah well, I don’t think your buddy there.”
Tapping the card given.
“Would want pointers from me. Guess should point him towards the others. Those still in.”
[Imogen Slaughter] As Moira digs through her purse, Imogen glances her way, sidelong, “He did say ‘almost’,” the doctor reminds her.
A glance to Kemp, “Anyone not an Eagle, I suppose?”
[Moira Tasgall] “He’s not my buddy. He’s Imogen’s.” She says poignantly.
Wallet shoved back into purse and zipped up, laying it down. She pulls the plate back over to her and finishes off the last of that third burger.
[Kemp] “Not an eagle and not Danny or Luis, though fuckme if I can figure out why they left. Must of happened after we walked out. Shit and now he comes with his tail between his legs, all big stuff while more or less begging we watch out for Danny. And why the fuck is he telling me Ling is on paid vacation? I didn’t even know she knew him.”
[Moira Tasgall] “I didn’t even know Ling worked for Luis. I wonder what she does…” Moira mused over that little inquiry, blinking suddenly as she looks at Kemp. “Walked out? Walked out of what?”
[Imogen Slaughter] She flicks a dry glance at Moira, “I don’t have ‘buddies’,” there’s barely humour in her tone.
By the time she has turned her attention to Kemp, the humour is gone entirely. She does not, however speak, as Moira asks her question. Instead, the kinfolk reaches for her coffee, and takes a sip of the tepid liquid, her eyes shadowed by lowered lashes – her expression indeterminate.
[Kemp] He reached for his drink, mumbling around the straw.
“We left the Sept.”
Swallowing as he looked up.
“Who’s for dessert?”
[Moira Tasgall] “Oh.” Not really thinking about it at first as she turns away to regard Imogen and opens her mouth to respond to the kin. Her eyes start to widen slowly, voice rushing out in a softer tone, “You left the …”
Eyelashes beat rapidly across her eyes, trying to register this bit of information in the forefront of her mind, “Why?” turning to pin her gaze immediately on the Rotagar. “What does this mean for us, then…” a mask of confusion starting to play across her face as she frowns a little.
“Pie..”
[Imogen Slaughter] She has already heard this news, so there is no reaction as she sips her coffee, lowering it and glancing at Moira, “Yeh aren’t part of the sept,” she says. “It doesn’t mean anything to you, except yeh may not be able t’go to the caern when there’s danger.”
[Kemp] “Pie, right. Imogen?”
His voice lowered.
“And yeah we left. Bunch of shit happened.”
Shrugging slightly.
“And it means we’ll still look after ya. So ya don’t have to worry about that. Far as we go, we’re all sticking together.”
[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly, at the second offer for dessert, “Pass.” A lift of her coffee, indicating that it was enough.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Patrols. Now more then ever, she seems to be doing patrols. Around the perimeter, through the center streets, around again. The people of their little area are well used to seeing her and the others wandering around, so much so they hardly notice any longer.
Long strides carry her over the cement, the heels of her boots clicking along the walk in steady tattoo. Her hands are tucked unto the pockets of her long coat, which is belted shut and hiding the dress slacks and blouse underneath. Her head is uncovered, her body warmed by inner temperature.
Steady as she goes, boss. Steady as she goes.
[Moira Tasgall] Moira doesn’t appear happy with the news. Slender eyebrows only knit together in a deep furrow, the scowl easily readable on her face as she just sits there. Her eyes dropping down to the plate in front of her, eyeing the bits of crust and rings of onion that had once graced the burger she’d eaten.
“What about the ‘others’ that are still affiliated? Are we suppose to not interact or talk to them, now?”
Her head lifts up to look at Imogen first, and then to Kemp for an answer. Many of the friends she had made were either Garou or kin associated to the Sept. She clears her throat, shaking her head at the second offer for pie. “No thank you.”
[Kemp] “Which others. Moira? Ya gotta make your own choices. I ain’t your keeper, or your daddy. We, the Eagles, we had our reasons for leaving. I ain’t got no idea why Danny and Luis left.”
Scooting his chair back to rise.
“Ya still want that pie?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen watches silent as Kemp rises, and Moira answers his third comment about pie. The kinwoman’s attention turns as she reaches into her coat pocket and retrieves her cell phone. She does not make a call, only checks the display and snaps it shut again.
A glance to the Fenrir kinfolk, “I’m goin’ fer a smoke,” she says, “Be back in a minute.” With that, she stands.
[Moira Tasgall] She did not possess the frame of mind to understand any of this. The confusion is still very apparent in her expression, along with a growing frustration of something else that was bothering her. Her thoughts taking a turn to think about new questions that spring to mind, Moira looks up at Kemp shaking her head.
“No, I don’t want pie.” She murmurs.
To Imogen, she merely regards the other kinswoman with a small nod of her head, leaning forward in the seat to prop her arms on the table and run her hands through her hair, pulling it down over her face.
[Kemp] “Suit yourself, I’ll be back.”
He nodded with Imogen’s murmur about going outside to smoke. Then he was heading for the counter to order cake with a scoop of icecream on top. Not much seemed to affect his appetite with the way he burned calories.
[Imogen Slaughter] The bell rings as she exits the greasy spoon, reaching into her coat pocket. Her metal cigarette case flashes in the ambient light on the street – the glow from the diner’s interiour seeping through the window, a street light half a block down, the only one working for three blocks. A passing car’s headlights.
She retrieves a coffin nail and lights up, inhaling deeply of toxins. On the exhale, she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out her cell phone, dialing a number and bringing it to her ear. Half a minute later, without saying anything, she flips the phone closed and pockets it again. The kinwoman leans back against the window sill, tapping ash toward the street, and takes another drag.
[AnneMarie Hoch] She rounds the corner in time to see Imogen exit and light up. Her steps don’t falter, or change in pace, she simply continues on toward the kinfolk, as it remains in the path of her patrols.
Silent as ever, each movement graceful in a deadly sort of way, she seems unbothered by the cold, and somewhat unsurprised to see Imogen. When she’s close enough, there is the seemingly simple, Eagle nod up.
[Moira Tasgall] The Fenrir kin is left to sit at the table alone, pulling her head up just enough to cradle her cheek into the palm of a hand. Turning her eyes to glance at the frosty sheet of ice on the window looking out at the street, her other hand stretches out running her warm fingertips over the cool glass and starts to wipe away the steam, clinging to the inside layer of the glass.
Curious to see what lay on the other side, barely able to make out the image of Imogen as the familiar color of red hair becomes distorted by the wet smudgy prints on the glass. Moira draws her hand away, dropping it down to her lap and wipes it dry.
[Imogen Slaughter] When Anne Marie approaches, Imogen glances up, regarding the mute Metis for a half second. Then, she tilts her head toward the inside of the diner, exhaling a half breath of smoke as she does. The final half is mixed with her words, spoken laced in toxin and tar. “Yer packmate’s inside,” she says, lifting the cigarette back to her mouth.
[AnneMarie Hoch] A slim brow arches, and she glances toward the diner. A flicker of something – perhaps a smile – graces her lips for a moment then fades, as she turns to open the door and step into the diner.
[Scott Blackmon] He slips out of the nearest alleyway with a casual stride and goes straight for Imogen. There’s never really a preamble with Scott. He simply gets right to the point. “I forgot I don’t have a lighter. Can I borrow your fire?”
The young Ragabash comes to stand beside the Kinwoman, glancing through the iced glass of the diner as he does so. “Is that guy still in there? Was he pissed about his wallet?”
[Kemp] He was heading back towards the table, plate in hand when the door opened again. Lifting his chin to Annemarie with the smile of a child in heaven.
“Chocolate cake.”
Two words only in explination as he plopped back down next to Moira.
“Ya don’t know whatcha missing, Moira.”
[Ling Rohl] (Hi, places?)
to AnneMarie Hoch, Imogen Slaughter, Kemp, Moira Tasgall, Scott Blackmon
[Scott Blackmon] ((Outside a diner, freezing his ass off for the pleasure of a cigarette with Imogen))
[Scott Blackmon] ((Doh. King of the Dropped PM. *takes a bow*))
to AnneMarie Hoch, Imogen Slaughter, Kemp, Ling Rohl, Moira Tasgall
[AnneMarie Hoch] The smirk comes into full being across her lips, blooming briefly before sliding away again as she moves toward the table with Moira and Kemp. She takes a seat, and unbelts and unbuttons her coat, letting it fall open as she crosses her legs. Fingertips slide over the material on her thigh, smoothing the wrinkles away before she folds her hands in her lap.
A chin up says hello to both of them, as she remains bemused by Kemp’s childlike glee over chocolate cake.
[Imogen Slaughter] The kinfolk glances up as Scott as he approaches. There’s a suggestion of a smirk before she reaches into her jacket pocket and retrieves a brass plated zippo, and offers it to him, open palmed.
“His friends paid fer his dinner” she says, “Left about five minutes after you did.”
[Moira Tasgall] “You know…” she starts speaking out randomly, “I was suppose to go on a date tonight and the stupid fuck never bothered to show up. I’m still a little annoyed by this, so I apologize for any bitchiness I may be channeling at any one.”
She lets out a sigh, her breath rushing out in a warm mist to fog up the spot of glass that she had cleaned off with her hand to look outside. She turns her head to look over her shoulder at Kemp, just catching Annemarie as the Mute joined their table.
She offers the Bulldog a half-smile, quirking an eyebrow at the childlike glee expressed by the Rotagar. Her eyes falling to the piece of chocolate cake sitting on his place, “Kemp, I swear you are the Devil himself sitting there with that bit of temptation on your plate.”
[Ling Rohl] Past a closed storefront, a parked abandoned rusted car with a towing sticker on it. A few more buildings, then diner, all of it on her path home. Also on her path home? Imogen and a man she hasn’t met.
The exceedingly tall woman, 6’2 in her sneakered feet, is wrapped up for the weather properly, wisps of wavy platinum escaping her knit cap. She’s got a new coat, a new used one that is, and its swallowing her in a nicely anonymous way. Her legs in the jeans though are muscular, and possibly eternal in length. Strikingly beautiful, as in, wolf-whistle and she will probably strike. All of that, with a raise of her head to Imogen, and the hint of a smile.
It’s cold after all, fucking, ass-numbing cold.
[Moira Tasgall] (Place=plate)
[Scott Blackmon] “Heh. What a bunch of marks in this town. Thanks.” He takes the lighter and snaps it open, bringing the flame to life with practiced ease and sparking the tip of his cancer stick. With a flick of the wrist its closed again, then returned to its owner. “Thank Christ I found a friendly who smokes. Everyone else in the family looks at you like you’re some rare species of insect if you even suggest lighting up. Well…” He grins at her. “…maybe they don’t look at you that way. But me? It’s worse than being a leper.”
[Imogen Slaughter] “You’re lucky they are,” marks, she means. “Yeh get caught, a jail sentence is not likely t’be pleasant fer one o’ yer kind.” Her eyes flick to the tattoos beneath his eye. “But I suppose you know that.”
Imogen’s gaze is direct – even for a kinfolk. He might be accustomed to humans shying away, to kinfolk never quite meeting the eye. The kinwoman, she stands his rage more easily than one might expect.
Her eyes are nearly dark in this light, and she turns her head to watch Schmetterling approach, even as she answers Scott, “Maybe it’s the company you keep.”
Kemp, what did you need to tell Schmetterling?
[Scott Blackmon] Is there anything better on Earth than a cigarette when you’re nic’ing? To judge by Scotts happy expression as he exhales a long stream of smoke, there certainly isn’t. His gaze follows Imogens as he replies. “I won’t be caged again. They got me when I was a kid, before I came into my own. It’d be a very different story if some Johnny tries to clap the old irons on me these days. Friend of yours?”
[Ling Rohl] Ling doesn’t recall meeting the man speaking to her cousin. Not to say he doesn’t recognize her– in certain circles, her face and more prominently, other parts of her were known once, months back. When she has finally crossed the street to them, flower-blue eyes regard the man briefly, then flick to Imogen in question, a tilt of the head added for emphasis.
No words, yet.
Her nostrils flare once as a wisp of smoke twirls her way.
She studies the man before her, in that appraising way many Fenris kin do.
[AnneMarie Hoch] (and we lost blu. *L*)
She watches in customary silence, though perhaps there is a look toward Moira, a slight lift of her brow in question. A date? Interesting.
Other then that, she turns her coffee cup over, signaling a waitress to slide by quickly to pour her a cup, before walking a way twice as fast as she approached. She takes her time, AnneMarie, and adds two sugars and a creamer to her cup, stirring with a clank of spoon on cup, before setting the spoon aside again.
[Moira Tasgall] (… he ran! *lol*)
Moira looks up to Annemarie, noticing the look she gives her and blinks. “What?” Slowly, straightening up in the seat as she crinkles her nose, her eyes dropping to watch Annemarie’s hands going through the ritual of soiling her coffee with cream and sugar.
“Am I not allowed to go on a date, Bulldog?”
[Imogen Slaughter] “The alternative o’ killing police and then p’raps worse t’try and avoid it doesn’t seem all that appealing.”
Schmetterling approaches, and Imogen smirks faintly at Scott’s question. “Family,” she answers. Across the totemlink, Kemp provides her the answer she needs, and to the blonde, she says, “Bloke called Luis came by and said ’till further notice, yeh’re on vacation. S’too dangerous, apparently.”
[Ling Rohl] ((*is Kemp repellant*))
[AnneMarie Hoch] Lips curl into a smirk at the nickname, though she is clearly amused. A slim shoulder lifts, then falls. Before she her hand slides into her pocket to retrieve her whiteboard and pen.
~That would depend upon who the date is with, wouldn’t it?~
Her handwriting is neat, compact, unhurried, and easily read.
[Ling Rohl] Eighteen, maybe, with the thick coat covering her curves. And shock on her very Germanic face. Sexy, maybe harder when her jaw isn’t dropping. Nothing of breeding is sensed, though, nothing but Imogen’s words to connect her to the Nation. “Um. ” She shakes her head, but the blonde waves are mostly trapped in place, leaving her to snap her mouth shut without having to spit out strands. For a change.
“You know why?” She’s got a deep voice too, husky and faintly foreign.
[Scott Blackmon] “In the immortal words of NWA, ‘fuck the po-lice’.” Another long drag from his cigarette as he watches Ling size him up. He’s never gotten a straight answer from Imogen as to what tribe she’s aligned with. Not that he’s exactly asked, mind you. But the woman who stands several inches taller than himself gives Scott a few ideas. Call it stereotyping, but she fits the Get bill perfectly. He refrains from introducing himself as the women carry on their own conversation. Instead, he keeps himself warm by puffing away on his cigarette and shifting his weight from side to side.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Trouble wi’ the Sept, perhaps,” Imogen shrugs slightly, glancing inside, “Yeh might try askin’ AnneMarie. Something happened at th’moot.”
[Ling Rohl] Ling looks inside too, peers in a window and around to spot a couple she knows. If they look her way, the blonde will smile. She does, now, at least once weekly.
She doesn’t seem bothered by the rage swirling around the stranger either. In fact, she looks rather right at him–and spatially down– as she asks, “Who are you?” Nothing of rage returns his way.
[Moira Tasgall] Moira folds her arms atop the other on the table and leans forward to rest her head on her arms, nestling her cheek into the crook of her left arm. She smirks up at Annemarie, catching the words on the whiteboard. A flush of color runs in her cheeks and she clears her throat.
“A Fianna.” Is all she says.
[Scott Blackmon] ((Ok, it just got wild in here, hate to do the sudden-bail, but…*suddenly bails*))
[AnneMarie Hoch] She studies the blush, and that brow quirks again. The pen? It just points to a single word once more.
Who.
[Moira Tasgall] (I swear the men are dropping like flies tonight)
[Ling Rohl] (Yeah, no stamina. Always a sad thing.)
[Moira Tasgall] She glances up at the one word, and then looks at the expression on the Mute’s face, trying to read if she is angry or just curious.
“Drake McAllister.”
[Imogen Slaughter] From around a corner, a familiar business man appears – walking with purpose in his stride. Scott’s getaway is quick, and abrupt, “Gotta go,” as he steps into a nearby alleyway, just seconds before his last mark comes storming up and enters the diner, nearly slamming the door behind him.
Inside, he is asking the waitress if anyone found a wallet, demanding she call him, if anyone finds it, his tone imperious.
Imogen’s attention turns toward the inside of the diner, watching through the window for a moment, before she drops her cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of her boot. “I’m goin’ t’pay my bill,” she says, heading toward the door.
[AnneMarie Hoch] There is no anger, just curiosity. She rolls the name around her head for a few moments, trying to place him. When she does, it is only on sight, from the previous moot. A slight nod, merely a lift of her chin, agreeing that she has seen him.
~I do not know him. I would trust your judgment, but you loved Kemp. Perhaps I should check this McAllister out. Who does he run with?~
It might even be that she is teasing the young fenrir kin. Stranger things have happened. Or so they say.
[Ling Rohl] Wow. Scared him off. Schmetterling stares after the suddenly leaving stranger, snorts once and looks towards Imogen. “Taking off after? ”
She enters too, the warmth of the building nearly painfully wonderful. The smells of proper greasy and carb-filled food hits her, the hot bread and the sweet of desserts and that whole not-out-in-the-cold bit. Its nice.
Moira and Anne-Marie. Cool.
[Moira Tasgall] “Still do…” She says, absently, shaking her head.
Moira pulls herself up, straightening in the chair as she glances over Annemarie’s shoulder to spy Imogen and the tall figure of Schmetterling. She returns her attention to the Mute, staring at her words on the whiteboard.
“Drake’s a friend or trying to be, it wasn’t like a romantic date or anything, just an outing. He packs with Aodhan.” The idea alone that Drake ran with Aodhan could be a spot of trouble, given the Eagle’s track record with that Fianna.
[AnneMarie Hoch] She nods, slightly, and erases the whiteboard before Ling comes near with a swipe across her thigh. The stain that mars otherwise perfect slacks suggests this is not the first time. She sets it on the table again, and…
…winks at Moira.
The moon darkens, the Modi’s mood lightens, and she tells no tales out of school. Moira’s dates are her own business. But she is not above teasing a time or three.
[Imogen Slaughter] “S’the plan,” she says over her shoulder toward Schmetterling as she enters the diner once again, the bell ringing from the door handle. She crosses over to Anne Marie and Moira conversing, reaching into her jacket pocket for her wallet.
[Ling Rohl] She nods and follows, raises her chin to AnneMarie in that familiar way, to Moira next. Nods to a free seat in inquiry. “Sticking around or about to go?”
Company would be nice. Company and hot soup and hot tea and hot bread and hot…
[Moira Tasgall] “I might have to take a long spell in the restroom soon after eating one of Kemp’s burgers.” Moira quips, making a face as she drops a hand to her stomach and rubs at it, sticking out her tongue.
“Cast iron Rotagar stomach I do not possess.”
[AnneMarie Hoch] She simply nods to the chair, she will at least finish her coffee.
[Imogen Slaughter] A brief glance at Moira when she speaks, as Imogen lays down enough money to pay for her meal. There’s a glance for the gathered, a nod, an inclination of her head, and she turns to go.
[Ling Rohl] A waitress comes by and as Ling sheds an outer layer, she places an order for all nice hot warm things, then sits with a comfy sigh. “Yeah, all yummy grease. Those are good. Bye Imogen. So I guess i need to find a new job, Luis passed a message to me through the grapevine. Vacation. Huh. Anyone know a metalwo- ahh machinist? Someone who don’t –doesn’t–care about paperwork much?”
[AnneMarie Hoch] She again writes on her board, turning it to show Ling afterwards.
~I do not know of any offhand. I will look around, however.~
[Imogen Slaughter] (( Thanks for the scene, guys! ))
[Moira Tasgall] “Schmetterling, I don’t think factory work is your brand of tea. Why not just try working in a clothing store, or maybe as a bar maid or beer girl for a club. I might know someone that could help you if you’re looking for something under the table. I know it’s helped me…”
[Ling Rohl] “I can make knives. Homemade, yeah but i want to learn to smith. Luis said once that machinist is the modern term. I wanna work with metal. If i can find a place to let me use stuff. I learned in that prison-for-girls. It’s fun, to pound hell out of something.”
Hot coffee she’d ordered instead of tea. Ling wraps her still-cold hands around it, lets the heat bake feeling back to her extremities.
“I’d like to try tthat too, Moira. Part time seems easiest to get, but more hours are better, right?”
[AnneMarie Hoch] She remains quiet, listening to the girls speak, as she drinks her coffee.
[AnneMarie Hoch] ((afk for a few))
[Moira Tasgall] She lets out a small sigh, glancing up at the tall blond. “First off, Schmetterling, you need a proper identification and should probably think about attending a Vo-Tech school if you want to learn welding. Get that cleared and it’ll be easier to find a legit job instead of sneaking around and trying to work under the table.”
[Ling Rohl] She deflates a little. Her voice drops. “Driver’s liscence ok? If they don’t need anythign else I’m good.” Except of course for being able to afford that. “BUt i don’t need to learn to weld. Is that what machinists do? I thought it was more casting.”
[Moira Tasgall] “There is more to being a machinist then just welding and casting, but yes, you’ll need to learn those things. You’ll also need to apply for a social security card.”