Her gaze is too direct for kinfolk. Even as a philodox, he is accustomed to the kinfolk avoiding his gaze. She does not.
It’s two entirely separate conversations. Decker with Moira. Imogen with Evan. They have no connection, no similarities.
“I’m a forensics pathologist,” she says, before extrapolating. “I ha’ a specialty in corpses.”
[Moira Tasgall] “She plays with dead people and investigates things.” Moira chirps in, suddenly bringing the focus of Evan’s and Imogen’s conversation to her side of the bench, she gives them a cheeky grin, shrugging her shoulders back.
Her head has to turn over one shoulder to regard Decker with a look, wrinkling up her nose. Normally, being this close to the Modi would have sent her into some sort of shaking fit. She is not completely at ease in his presence, but she isn’t leaping off the bench either at the first signs of sudden movement.
“Oh. Why?”
[Evan McCollach] He does not respond to her gaze with anything such as a growl or a snarl. He was a child of Gaia, partially, kinfolk did not need to look down in his presence, they did not need to. And then Moira chimes in and he glances over at the nodding. These two Eagle kinwomen seem to be completely different.
“I guess you are right about meeting then.”
Forensic pathologist? He didn’t know much about sciences beyond the basic understanding of the world. He was not taught to learna bout it, his life was not directed along that path.
“So it is similar to those CSI shows?”
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen’s reply to Evan is delayed by her reaction to Moira, a sharp glance, an arched eyebrow, “Have you been drinking?” she enquires mildly.
[Decker Rohl] She plays with dead people–
“Watch yer mouth.”
It’s lazily spoken; no less menacing for it. One of his favorite fuckin’ phrases, maybe, insofar that he had any. Right up alongside tear yer fuckin’ head off and break you in half — although those were reserved for direr encounters.
He turns back from watching the empty street, his steely eyes steady. “How tha fuck do I know why Balance chose three months?” The misunderstanding may or may not be deliberate.
[Moira Tasgall] “I wish I was.” She grouses, canting her head around to peer up at Imogen. Decker tells her to watch her mouth, causing the kin’s shoulders to hunch up, flinching.
She lowers her eyes to the pavement, glossing over the cracks in the cement, shifting on the bench as one leg pulls out from under her butt, followed by the other, touching her feet to ground. “No, I haven’t been drinking…” she is moody, becoming temperamental.
[Evan McCollach] He looks at Moira for a second. He was not oen to drink, he never even touched alcohol. But he had seen how others reacted to it, while under the influence of it. He never wished to get that way. And for the moment he didn’t speak. He didn’t know how they interacted yet, and he was the low man on the totempole. Best to just watch for the time being.
[Imogen Slaughter] “Just makin’ sure,” Imogen replies, before turning her attention back to Evan.
Reminded of the cigarette case, still palmed in her hand, she flips it open, retrieving the last coffin nail, holding it habitually between two fingers. The bronze plated case clicks audibly as it snaps shut , and she pockets it before retrieving her zippo.
“CSI is close enough.”
[Decker Rohl] There’s a silence. As Moira shifts, Decker removes his elbow from the back of the bench. He has big hands: long blunt fingers, a wide palm. He makes a fist of one and rubs his knuckles with the other. There are always scratches on them, scrapes and cuts. For him, fighting was more than an occupation. It was a lifestyle.
“Ya wanna tell me somethin’,” Decker says quietly, “jus’ spit it out. Don’t drop hints ‘n wait fer me ta axe.”
[Moira Tasgall] Moira isn’t drunk. The smell of alcohol doesn’t permeate her clothes or breathe. She is simply exhausted and it shows. Her nostrils flare out, exhaling her breath out in a sigh. She doesn’t look at Decker, just leans forward again. Elbows braced against her knees to press the heels of her palms to her forehead.
“No,” she says, her words almost muffled against her wrists, the faint impressions of scars marring the skin, along with a glint of gold that fashions itself into a necklace chain and a crucifix worn like a charm bracelet around her right wrist.
“There’s nothing you’d care to hear about, Decker.” A pause, tilting to look back at him, “But maybe you can tell me why the fuck do guys tells girls they still want to be friends after they break up with them? What kind of weird crap is that? You’re male.”
[Decker Rohl] The Modi matches her gaze evenly. A faint hint of humor — or something like it, anyway — curls the corner of his mouth.
“I dunno,” he says. “I ain’t never broke up with nobody before.”
[Evan McCollach] He looks at Moira, not to inquire or to glare, but just to watch her. She was a more sincere woman that Imogen was. He remembered speaking with some time back and she actually worried about him pushing Decker to break. Evan, the young whelp of a coggie breaking, mentally or emotionally, the war machine Adren of Decker. It was odd to hear her say it before, but in someways it did make sense.
And then he looks back to Imogen. The firey red hair of his falling across his face once again covering up his emerald eyes again.
“So may I ask, have you ever had to explain one of Decker’s victims to officers and what did you say?”
[Moira Tasgall] The faint hint of humor seems to draw an incredulous look from the kin. She rolls her eyes up to the sky, dropping her hands into her lap, and sits up. She flops back against metal backing of the bench, just shaking her head at Decker.
“I should’ve known you were going to say that…” she says with a wry smirk, somehow finding a little humor in it herself.
Moira glances over at Evan when he looks her way, giving him an odd look, blinking at the questions he asks Imogen, a bit curious herself if the redhead has ever had to do such a thing.
[Imogen Slaughter] There is a flick of her attention between Moira and Decker, but she turns her attention back to Evan. Apparently, she does not have relationship advice for Moira, either. Evan’s hair in his eyes brings to her attention strands against her cheek, and caught in her eyelashes. She pushes them back with one hand, before sliding her cigarette between her lips – she lights up as Evan speaks, an eyebrow arching at his question.
She exhales smoke before speaing again, turning her head away deliberately to blow the smoke toward the street. “Does this ha’ a purpose, or are yeh just curious?”
[Decker Rohl] “Yeah,” Decker agrees, smirking in truth now, “ya shoulda.”
[Moira Tasgall] “So… is Evan staying with the rest of the pack at the docks, or have you sent him over to the kin house yet to be fully subjected to Ling? I mean since he’s an Eagle now, I assume he might get the full exposure to our lovely dysfunctional little family.”
Dysfunctional was a word she’s heard Kemp use before, and in some bizarre way they all were. The thought of Ling meeting Evan seems to plant some sadistic little smile on the girl’s face, which could be some aftereffect of just seeing a strange guy put through the Ling experience.
[Decker Rohl] The Modi gives a laconic shrug. “Showed ’em tha kinhouse. Don’t think he’s run inta Ling yet though.”
[Evan McCollach] He didn’t have any advice to give Moira either. The only girl he ever had any connection to, was an arranged mating at sometime back at his home Sept. When he wasn’t accepted as a Silver Fang, he never spoke to that girl again. It is just the silver fang way.
“Part of it is curiousity. I also wonder if it is not just Decker that you do it for. And its good to know that there is someone able to cover up the causualties of war.”
And then he looks back at Moira as she just asks if he is going to be subject to Ling. What or who exactly is a Ling?
[Imogen Slaughter] She takes another drag from her cigarette, her eyes narrowed against the smoke as the wind blows it into her eyes. “I don’t work fer the police anymore,” the situation is more complicated than that – in the first place, she has never worked for the police. But she strips the facts until it is the shortest path between A and B. “So I have t’get there before they do.”
She turns away again, exhaling poison in the air to be scattered with the wind. “But I cover up th’ ‘casualties o’ war’, as yeh put it, yes.”
[Moira Tasgall] “Evan, you should go to the kin house sometime and meet Ling. She’s this really tall, buxom blond. Decker’s cousin, she’ll think you’re adorable. She’s a really nice girl, just ah… watch out for her cooking.”
Moira looks to Evan as she speaks, any attempts to seek relationship advice have been forgotten, knowing all too well that it’s not something you can get from this group.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Long even strides carry her through the territory on never-ending circle of patrol. With the warmth of the weather, her jacket is open, her hands tucked into the pockets. Underneath, it is her standard fare – White buttondown blouse, and dark slacks. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
It is inevitable that she should round the corner and see the group at the bus stop down the way. It always happens, eventually, by some ultimate design they never think to question. And so it is, here comes the silent Modi, approaching the others.
[Decker Rohl] “Hell, Ling’s cookin’ ain’t half bad,” Decker opines. “Better’n what I do.”
The wise would know that may not be saying much. He gets to his feet, dusting his hands off on his thighs. It’s hard to say which one gets cleaner, and which dirtier. He palms his car keys out of his pocket, giving Annemarie down the way a vague nod up. Then, to Imogen, “Want a ride?”
[Evan McCollach] He raises his eyes at the fact that Ling is Decker’s cousin. And he somewhat tries to image a female version of Decker with blonde hair and they he just shakes off the image. But he still was going to be polite.
“It would be nice to meet her than.”
Oh man what would happen if she did think Evan was cute? Oh that would be not be a good sign.
[Imogen Slaughter] A brief glance over her shoulder at AnneMarie, before she nods to Decker, “Yeah,” she agrees, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it out beneath the toe of her shoe.
She hasn’t got much to offer in the way of farewell, a glance to Evan and Moira, as she steps away to the Barraccuda, victoriously parked at the curb.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Imogen turns around and spares her a glance. A lift of AnneMarie’s chin acknowledges that, and seems to encompass Decker and Moira as well as she draws near the group that seems to be dissapp ating.
As for Evan – there is a cool glance. Nothing more. Nothing less.
[Moira Tasgall] “Hmmm.” She falls quiet sitting on the bench, quirking an eyebrow as she watches Imogen and Decker begin to head for the barracuda. “Have fun.”
[Evan McCollach] He looks over towards Decker and Imogen, but does not impede their departure. He just nods his head to Decker as he leaves and that was all. His emerald eyes turn towards the metis ahroun’s approach. Just watching her for a second before looking over at Moira again.
“I am sorry about… your problem.”
[Decker Rohl] Seems neither he nor Imogen are one for goodbyes. Decker’s always a few paces away from the busstop. He half-turns, slowing until Imogen is abreast him. Then he turns his back on them altogether, unzipping his sweatshirt as he goes.
The Barracuda doesn’t beep open by remote entry. He has to get right up to the door and put the key in the lock. Shocking in this day and age, when most cars were automatic and high-end engines were ignited by a start button. But Decker liked the mechanical connections. Clutch and shift, crank and key. He pulls the door open for Imogen. It doesn’t seem to grate as much as it did, though when he slams it shut, there’s still a sharp rattle of metal on metal. Soundproofing and insulation doesn’t really exist in the ‘Cuda. He gets in the other side. His rage makes the interior seem warmer; it’s just an illusion.
A glance her way as he turns the key. The engine turns over a few times before catching with a roar. “Goin’ back ta yer place?”
[Schmetterling Rohl] Speak of the de- well. Close enough. The Rohl clan Black Sheep, as one thinks of her, walks up the street towards the group. Stalks, rather.
Some people have a slight intimidating way about them. Ling is not some people. She has that I Will Gut You expression she saves for walking in rough neighborhoods. That combined with her Penthouse-hot curves and a face to haunt a man’s dreams in a most steamy manner, the platinum-haired woman both gets attention and then scares it right away. She is tall, too, towering over most other women at 6’1 flatfooted. Valkyrie Barbie. Mean one maybe.
Today she’s in a tee and sneakers and jeans which might need replacing again soon, from the couple of holes fraying into existance on her thighs, on her knees. Couple of mud stains there now. She’s also carrying three metal poles. No, bars. No, one’s a bar and one’s a pole and one is an odd bit of twisted steel from something no longer easily identifiable.
[Imogen Slaughter] She does not hurry to catch up with Decker, simply lengthening her stride until she reaches him.
When he opens the car door, she is reminded briefly of his old Ford – the one where the door would not shut unless it was slammed so loudly she always thought it would fall right off the hinges. Those who think of Decker opening the door for her as chivalry are not familiar with his taste in cars.
She glances at him as she reaches behind for the seatbelt. “That ha’ been my plan, yes.”
[AnneMarie Hoch] It looks for all the world as if she will continue to walk by. Moira gets a longer, lingering look – clearly something is going on there. AnneMarie, however, is the one who never, ever pries. Ever. Accept things as they come, speak when spoken too, seen and never, ever, heard.
As such, unless someone stops her, she will continue on past the group at the bus stop.
[Decker Rohl] Though he’d never admit it, there were a few seconds while the engine coughed and coughed that he was afraid it wouldn’t start at all. Imogen might remember a few cases of pushing with the old blue Ford. And, for that matter, with the Barracuda.
But that was then (and that was a few seconds ago) and this is now. The entire car vibrates with the rumble of the idle, the air intake visibly thrumming where it rises up through the shaker hood. “Come fer a ride,” Decker offers. And, as if this might seal the deal — though the wry edge to his smirk says he isn’t quite so naive as that — “‘ll letcha drive on tha way back.”
[Imogen Slaughter] Her own smirk is wry as she clicks the seatbelt into place.
“Just don’t stop fer gas,” she says, “and yeh have yerself a deal.”
[Decker Rohl] That earns her a dirty glance and a snort of a laugh. Earns. “Uppity Fianna bitch,” he says. One might call it a term of endearment.
[Evan McCollach] He had been wary of AnneMarie, he still did not know what to think about her. They were packmates for the next three months, but there still lingered that challenge he could not longer fulfill. She was a cub now and it was not honorable to challenge a cub. They did not have rank. But he was still civil and he nodded when she passed. Before moving back to the bench to sit down.
[Moira Tasgall] Moira was about to make the situation just a wee bit uncomfortable for Evan. She turns on the Child of Gaia, eyeing him up and down with a critical look. “So, I have to assume that the Hounds are no longer together, I don’t think you need to apologize for my problems, Evan, despite them being with a man now connected with the fucking little throat ripper.”
Annemarie can see it coming, that storm brewing inside the kinfolk. She has seen Moira in such an intense emotional state before after the whole debacle with Kemp back in November.
[Imogen Slaughter] Her smile is one-sided, a curve upward as she reaches for the crank for the window, only to find empty space. Her attention turns downward, finding the handle in the door pocket. “And what does that make you?” she inquires, casting him a sidelong glance as she fits the crank – removed for work on the door, or perhaps it has always been broken – into its customary position, turning it to crack the window.
A thin thread of cool air enters the car’s cab – she removes the broken bit of equipment and returns it to the door pocket, regarding the Fenrir with an arched brow.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Civility. A smirk slashes it’s way across her lips, then disappears. As does she, soon enough, around the next corner.
AnneMarie can see Moira’s stormfront closing in. She doesn’t stop, or return, fairly certain the kinfolk can handle herself just fine.