August 26, 2003.08.26.03. - raincheck [imogen][forest hill]
(imogen)
It's fucking hot as hell.Or at least it seems that way. It's actually only a little over eighty degrees but the sky is cloudy and the humidity makes it worse. Decker's truck has been back now, for weeks, though the packmate himself has not returned. The mercedes benz, however, has been regularly missing as the good doctor returns to what might be considered a brutally unhealthy schedule. At least, though, she's home sometimes, so the loud music (or at least the untolerable loud music, by type rather than decibel level) has tapered off as she exerts her musical taste over her half-sister's rather teenage preferences. (Metallica, yes. Britney Spears, no. Classical music, yes. Dreary yes. N'Sync no. Peppy as all hell? No.)
The car is returning now, with a purr of well kept engine, and at eight pm (early for recently. Summer brings out the dead. The dead brings out Dr. Slaughter.), and the door shuts softly behind her. One hand pushes back strands of hair from her face as she steps away from the Mercedes to cross the parking lot.
The air is sticky and hot, and it's worse in the suit she wears, and by the time she's reached the edge of the parking lot and is stepping up the on the sidewalk, she's removed the jacket, so the hot air weighs against her bare arms rather than against the clothing against her skin. The change is marginally better.
Her eyes flick briefly across the condos as she walks up the sidewalk.
(james)
there's a black moon that will rise in the sky
at least when nightfall truly begins
it's only a little past evening, now
it's only partly cloudy, now
though he's unsure how long that's going to last
parked on the condo's steps, open beer between his ankles, waving a match's flame away
deep umber eyes lift to search the graying horizon past the first plume of exhaled smoke
they're supposed to get hammered this winter
worse than even last year's endless ice storm
..... juuuuuust peachythough that may be a welcome change from the sweltering heat
(at least for the first day or two)
what may have once been gray bandana ties back the dreads
though few errant ropes are sticking to the sweat across his shoulders
lack of heavy frame reveals the hitch in the line of his jaw
(which he's still getting used to)
just below the backcurve on the left side, placed just so that it deteriorates speech
the brutal scars on his bare back face the open door on the balcony above
thermostat's turned off, and he's listening for the laundry's buzzer through the screen keeping the bugs out
that would be the reason he's at the condo instead of the warehouse down by the docks
there are times even a Bone Gnawer believes laundry is a necessity
he's down to the one pair of grungey cut-off to long shorts BDUs that are clinging to tanned legs
yes, now would be that timebeer lifts to attempt quenching his thirst (no, no thoughts of alcohol's dehydration) then toasts up at the approaching kin
(imogen)
The ever changing seasons of winter and summer, spring and fall, baffles the cornishwoman. The weather seemed almost sporadic, erratic. Unnatural. Rain, snow, cloudy days for ages. that she was used to. It was the yo-yo of hot weather and cold.She exhales, slowly, as she walks up the steps to the condominium, dropping the brief case and jacket to the floor of the balcony. "I've somethin' f'r yeh." she says, as she crouches down, opening the brief case, "F'r th'pack," an amendment, as she pulls out a file.
Passing it across the divide. "S'about Endron."
(james)
a brow lifts almost lazily at the weather-baffled Cornishwoman
End.....OH!... that Endron
since Lexi never came through on that infiltration job
he's been on the background of that project
though chin drops in a nod the same time body lifts
unfolding from the (cool. cool. cool.) terracotta tiling
stretching the kinks out of (garou scarred) back and finding a chair
the wave of offer of one to Imogen and the toss of pack onto table almost unthought-of moves by now
even if she normally refuses at least one, old habits die hard
(imogen)
She refuses both, in what might be a completely unprecedented reaction, instead, leaning against the railing of the balcony, with a slight shake of her head, "No, thank you."A lift of her chin toward the folder, "S'just names, mostly. Bloody place is impossible t'find out anything important. Names o' their higher ups, sure, but no damned addresses. They may as well no' exist except on paper. But," a shrug, "there's th'locations o' their most recent drillings. Down south."
(james)
the chair he expected, the pack was the unprecedented part
though now not one for the usual comment or jibe, he simply nods
one arm snaking out to pull the file closer
fingers sneaking beneath the edge to lift it up and glance at the first page
it's another drag before he says anything"Rune's 'one to hack't, but 'll make sure Erik g'ts it. Thanks."
(imogen)
The first page is, oddly enough, a table of contents. the file weighs unevenly, as if some of the papers were not the same size. And they're not. There are hand written paper, paper from note books, yellow sticky notes. While organized, the paper that Imogen has provided him is mostly sheets she wrote on when she had a second, between the chaos of her days. The second page is a medical examiner's report.She shakes her head slightly, dismissing the thanks. It wasn't needed, "S'nothin'."
It takes her a moment to decipher, after the accent and after the slur, exactly what James had just said, "Rune might be able t'manage somethin' from the DMV, if she can get into that. If they have a car, they'll be there." A lift of her shoulder, "I can't make such a large request wit'out drawin' notice."
(james)
if he caught onto her pause being for the deciphering of his accent and slur
he may be amused at the properties of karma
now he'll be just as unintelligable as she when drunk
once more, his head drops in a nod
much easier than mangling the words of concurrence
instead, the all but filtered cigarette is flicked off into the flowerbeds on the other side of the balcony railing
and he's responding to the buzz of the washing machine from within
file grabbed to take inside and stored in a place of safer keeping
beer snatched up from the table to go along for the ride
that's held up again in silent signal of offer for her to accept or decline as needed
but the buzzer should be enough to tell the tale of where he's headed as the screen door slides open(imogen)
"Shit," she exhales in a sudden curse as her pager sounds, reaching down for the device at her hip, pulling it free to glance at it. "I 'ave t'go." This was expected, and she's already stepping away as she speaks, scooping up her jacket and pulling it back on. Not because she was cold, or needed to look professional, but because the fall of her sleeveless blouse revealed the ink darkness of her tattoo, and her tribal brand could be a hindrance to her always, even if it was a boon to her (former) tribe.Lift of her chin toward the held open door, "Raincheck." A brief smirk, and she turns around, walking quickly down the stairs. She doesn't bother going back to her own condo. She'll call on the way.
Posted by james at August 26, 2003 12:00 AM
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