October 07, 2003.10.07.03. - i owe you an explanation [imogen][forest hill, condos]
(imogen)
It's sixty two degrees out, and, as is typical for the area, humid. In a few short months, sixty degrees will not seem that cold at all, but here and now with summer still emblazoned in everyone's memory, it feels chilly, weather that speaks of fall.She's outside, nonetheless, cigarette burning between the fingers of her right hand, a movement that half conciously avoids brushing the filter against the tips of her long slender digits, to avoid irritation across the half healed tiny slashes across the fingerpads and the one deeper further up her finger where whatever it was that had cut her (there) had bitten deeper than elsewhere.
Bruises heal quickly on kinfolk flesh, though not as quick as it would on her full-blooded 'cousins' (not that she would claim such a familial connection), and darkening that bloomed across her cheekbone has faded already to a pale discolouration. The flame of her hair is pulled back low on her neck, and a bright burst of colour against the natural paleness of her skin, the black of her shirt.
Dressed in jeans and a light knitted sweater, the fabric not quite close fitted to her frame, she sits in one of the deck chairs on her balcony, one leg drawn up to rest on the edge of the seat, the other bent loosely, booted foot flat againt the deck. She holds herself, not quite without that not-quite-grace she has, but with a certain stiffness to the edges. The tenseness of muscles that speaks of the knowledge that sudden movements will be painful, and she will not put that upon herself just this now.
Miriam is home, somewhere perhaps, because music plays somewhere inside the condo, heard even through the closed window pane. Something depressing and instrumental. Classical, even. At least it's not N'Sync.
Smoke spills out of her mouth with each nicotine laced exhale as she briefly watches a car make it's way down the head, headlights flashing bright, tail lights flaring red in departure.
(james)
headlights flash, blinding in their sudden spotlight
taillights glow, highlighting a lanky raggedyman sheilding his eyes
darkened irises protected by the lash locking squint beneath the shadows of deep sockets
one shoulder shrugs to resettle the pack on his yoke
and the Ahroun keeps movingit's a slow stroll, really
not exactly flavored by his.... concern.... of the other night
while the lengthening evenings portent of the coming fall
the weather's still fairly nice
at least.... gorgeous compared to the ice storms that will come
he's damn well making the most of it
Rune's kin pay enough to keep the Rolling Meadows lawns finely manicured
hands had settled in loose fists swinging past hips with each step
Cochran II's dully thunking on the shaped concrete
dreads swing in lazy count across the tops of the (surprisingly new and clean) t-shirtat the central Y where the paths begin to split - he stops
he could, of course, continue on to the neighboring condo
checking in to see if the cub-now-Cliath has demolished the posh safehouse
though, well, he knows that isn't the reason he came by
the pack rustles, and bottles clink
and soon a hand is rising in the darkness
bringing a Pacifico beer bottle into sparkling angle to the nearby park-lantern
dark eyes search the faintly lit shadow behind the burning ember and exhaled smoketwo days ago - blood covered that hand now wrapped around the still-chilled bottle
blood of a security guard (or three?) that he had no idea who or what or why he was killing
just that it was necessary to the task that Imogen had lain out for him
and for some reason.... that doesn't seem to matter to the Gnawer
(banaman... they were only human....)
what does is the fact he can stand on the walkway and hold the beer up as he is(imogen)
She had decided last year (and the year before that) that she hated passing winters here in New Jersey. In fact, she hated the winters in the states period, for she'd lived elsewhere before coming to Newark and had fared no better. She did, however, enjoy the fall, the cool rain, and the cool weather.There's a slight, if quiet smirk that curls her lips at the lift of beer, and in exchange, shifts her weight to reach over to the armrest (it takes trained eyes to catch the hitch in the movements, and to realize she used her right hand, when it should have been easier to use her left) and lift up her cigarette package in some vague return greeting.
Two days ago -- had been a very bloody night indeed, and had not ended with the death of guards, but later after burning bodies that this too, Imogen did not explain. Her absolute silence in the work might have seemed ordinary (she truly is an intensely infuriatingly reticent woman), but for the flavour to it. It had been a bloody night, indeed, and since some (but certainly, not most... and maybe that made it worse) of the blood was her own, perhaps her silence that night could be excused more than her silence most nights.
"Bring yer own beer wit' yeh now, do yeh?" she inquires, mildly, and non-chalantly.
(james)
somewhere in the darkness, the kin (sloooowly) shifted weight in return greeting
a trained eye would have caught her hitch in movements, noticing how she compensates
James simply remembers the blood (his. heart. stopped.) and knows where the wounds were
but hey.... she's moving - that's what counts
somewhere in the darkness, the Garou quirks a (forever) lopsided grin"Yeh." chuckled only loud enough for her to hear "Fig're Kemp clean us out."
the hand lowers, and on the trip ascending the stairs, compressed air hisses as the cap's popped off with the aid of a Bic lighter
and even as easily as he smiles in settling the opened bottle on the table beside her
there's the memory that perhaps the good Doctor wasn't the only one more prone to strangely flavored silence
deep umber drops in a pointed look at her arm and it's limitedly stiff movements
but a moment later attention swings to the pack of smokes
he's learned his lesson about actually askingthere's a symphony of movement: unshouldering the pack, setting it into the empty chair, pulling out another beer, popping it's cap, taking the pack, lighting a cigarette, and exhaling through his nose because that fucking smell of burnt flesh and fur is still clinging to his sinuses
(imogen)
"Actually," said slow with thoughtfulness, "you'll be pleased to know that, Kemp doesn't drink; or smoke. Too many damned 'just say no' classes in school, I s'pose."A lift of one corner of her mouth, as she raises the cigarette back to her lips, "So yer beer and fags are safe."
Pause. "I owe you an explanation."
(james)
"'s a good kid."it's soft, murmured, an absent truth
good kid that was thrown right into the worst school in town
(but weren't they all?)
weight shifts backwards as the bottom of the bottle is raised to the sky above
several amber swallows pour down his throat before he stops long enough to breath
(maybe... he's not that unscathed..... but from what?)
the porchlight, in those movements, highlights the sharper angles to his cheekbones
and the constantly moving fabric of the shirt is a little looser than it used to be
his jaw grinds and the joint pops in a thoughtful flex and lick of lips to clean the leftover droplets away
then the dreads dip and weave over his shoulders in small nod"'preciate tha'."
there's nothing condescending or demanding in his tones
nor the caustic mockery of the bitter tool
it's pretty clear he would have done what he did for her without an explanation
others need, a Hood provides
(imogen)
"Maybe." An absent truth of which Imogen was not so sure, perhaps.She regards him for a beat, two. Buying time, perhaps, as she takes a slow inhalation of cigarette, rather than a breath of fresh air, and reaches out to rest the cigarette in the ashtray, the ember burning redhot against the grey smeared glass. Her hands rub together as she exhales smoke, the unscathed fingers of one hand, brushing across the small cuts of the other.
Breath in now, clean humid air, a hint of coolness because the sun had gone down, and while it was still warmer than winter would be, it was autumn and everything was relative. For now, it's a comparison to summer.
Start at the beginning then: "Last week, a body showed up in Jersey City." Her weight shifts slightly in the chair, the bent leg extending until it joined it's mate on the balcony floor, and she straightens from her half curl/recline, sliding to a more upright position. "His blood had completely coagulated; there were claw marks across the floor, tearing in the cushions." A half lift of her shoulders. She has a particular posture, Imogen. She never slouches, back straight, shoulders back. It's a posture that can be associated with dancers and those who will never have to suffer from back problems. "Garou. It took me days to figure out that it was th'body that was Garou, not the attackers," it almost might seem she should smirk here. Self-deprecatingly that it took her that long. But for her tone, she might as well be referring to something that happened somewhere else rather than to herself; the detachement of a witness on the stand. "He was Bone Gnawer. At least so far as I could tell from the Glyph." A meager shrug eloquently states her slight knowledge of glyphs, despite her former tribes emblazoned in her skin. "Not that it mattered much; it's not as if he could tell me anything, anyway." She pauses here, perhaps because she can't quite decide where to go. She skips ahead days and several chapters in the story. "The sample I asked you t'destroy was airborne chemical. Designed to cause blood to coagulate. A minute, maybe less. Garou only. Not human, not kin." She still rubs her hands together absently, fingers running across the over-sensitive healing skin. "I was tryin' t'go after the original: it had t'be injected, but was a good start f'r the airborne. Destroy both, and Sequegenics lost ten years o' work and who knows 'ow much money.
"The man with th'guns in 'is hands an' the woman with the sniper rifle were kinfolk. I was," a hesitation here, because for once, she cannot think of the right word, "assisting them. There were six kin; five died earlier," This was important, somehow, "one other drove away."
A slight twitch of her lips, and she reaches out for the cigarette once more, curling her fingers around the filter, "My sample was destroyed, a little farther away than anticipated, out near the woods. Th'last o' it burned wit'the cursed one that 'ad been there."
Her hand moves slightly, in a gesture, the ember of her cigarette tracing through the air, That's that before the motion continues to her mouth to inhale nicotine laced air into her lungs.
(james)
as is the inherhant habit of them both
as she speaks, the Ahroun watches her
deep brown eyes gracing full-moon attentions on the kin
most would take it as a stare down, beneath Luna's swell above, a challenge to speak freely before a Garou
they both know that doesn't work for shit on the good Doctor
so this is just his notion of respect, that what she speaks of is important enoughand as she carries on... there's no. question. of importance.
(he was a Bone Gnawer)
the subconscious flinch at knowing Family, however distant or unknown, met an end
(Garou only, not human, not kin)
dark brows lift towards the frame of dreads
there's the breif consideration to sit down, rather than lean against the ballustrade
that would, of course, depend on whether or not he'd make it to the chair
she mentioned what he was dealing with could kill him.... but....
christ. think he'll just stay where he's leaning
glad he paid attention to holding his breath and working quickly
he's not doing so now - heart's beating a little harder, lungs are filling a little deeper
so what if it's burning through the bummed smoke at twice the speed
not like his lungs would ever blacken
(there were six kin, five died earlier)
jaw drops in the acknowledgement of a nod
most Garou see kin as expendable - not James. Never James.
and not with what happened so recently to them allafter she finishes - he's quiet for a good long while
taking the time to assimilate this rush of information
taking the time to finish off that beer
the sound of the second bottle hissing open all that breaks the silence between them
sweet fermentation quenches a suddenly dry mouth and throat
a jump-started second cigarette coats his tongue with nicoteine and smoke
the first is smashed out in the tray on the table halfway between kin and Gnawerit causes blood to coagulate in a minute, maybe less
James doesn't have the extensive medical knowledge Imogen has of how the body works
his repetoire of facts and figures gathered from random books fueling his education at the Albany public library
or perhaps the books... borrowed... by Frankenweiler mentors at the University
but even he knows that's a horrible, horrible way to diea breath is gathered to speak
then it's replaced by a collection of smoke and toxins
exhaled uselessly in all but silent sigh
the left joint hinging jaw to skull grinds as it works to hustle words into gear
but in the end, even the street performer who makes a living on eloquence is at a loss for words"Th'nks...."
is all that makes it out, in only a murmur
(imogen)
She has a thing for challenges; look a Garou in the eyes; work among men and sexism; the dead and crime. Stand firm on her points without a single concern for safety. Destroy a chemical, bleed for the effort. She would almost seem reckless, if she weren't so .damned. calculating.Tonight her eyes watch the mostly darkened street, watching where the street lights illuminate the night air which has become filmy with fog. It will burn away come morning.
The silence where he pauses is just that: silence. She smokes, her weight shifting her weight backward once more, deeper into the chair, drawing her leg again up, the boot scraping softly against wood. Her elbow rests against the curve of her knee, bending slowly as she lifts the cigarette back to her mouth once more.
Her attention jerks sharply and suddenly toward him and his thanks. Surprise, perhaps. It's muted by shadow.
Silence again, an ebb and flow, and she stands, a movement that is at once both restless and cautious. She shakes her head, "Don't mention it."
(james)
her surprise is muted by the shadow
but at the height of the moon's swell high above
(hunter's moon)
the Garou is far more aware than normal
the predator's Rage rising until all senses are humming and alert
sight, sound, touch, scent, even taste, and that animalistic sixth sense which hovers just beyond definition
however muted towards nothing in the darkness her surprise may have been
the lanky raggedyman Gnawer noticed itbut he does nothing to clarify his thanks
just a little twist of forever lopsided grin at her letting it's weight slide away
just like old times, eh, Jamey-boy?there are a thousand reasons why he could only bring that one word in response to her story
that the dead Garou was a Bone Gnawer and somehow her actions were vengeance for his death - he was not forgotten
that she thought enough of him to call and bring him in on the mission instead of another no matter how far away they were
that she allowed him to help when previous attempts were so brutally declined
that she, even reluctantly, performed a duty for the Garou nation she tries so diligently to avoid
that she told him the rhyme and reason for the blood on his hands even if he never expected to know why
that he's a Hood and it's etiquette to thank someone when they give you something either grand or seemingly trivial
reasons surfacing from even deeper that would never cross the good Doctor's mind if she cared to think on it that muchthe blazing, shifting red of her hair rises from the shadows of the porch to the slanted light from neighboring light
the beast in him can sense the restless caution that's leaking invisable scent from the pores of her skin
under the silver light scything holes in the scattered clouds above - the hunter should react to the prey
but the Ahroun does little more than shift his weight more comfortably against the railing
all designed to tilt the bottle's mouth against his own"Wan' me teach y' the glyphs yeh dunno?"
That's that
Don't mention it
he's learned when it's time to keep the conversation flowing foward instead of lingering on details
sure, he'd love to ask how she is, if she's allright, will be allright, needs anything, or another equally concerned question of his friend
but he's learned that lesson, too
that he showed up tonight is as close to asking as he'll get
he'll have to settle for whatever return she grants him, if anything at all
(imogen)
Instead of answering right away, her pale fingers (fading red and pink in unparallel slashes across the pads) reach up to pull free the elastic that had confined her hair, curls and waves freed in a single motion only to be gathered up again. Each movement deliberate, she twists the strands (red and gold, flame and sun, oak and roan) low on her neck, tendrils snaking free to brush against her cheekbones, curl against the collar of her sweater.Despite her restlessness, there is only so far one can walk on a balcony, and she turns to glance at James for a moment, pensively. Ironic: second offer in the last two or three months to teach her something more. Her smirk isn't quite tinged with mirth; it lacks the energy for humour.
"No," she says slowly, "I c'n recognize that th'marks are Garou. I c'n tell, I think, if s'a cursed one, or a..." unfamilar term, "...Gaian. We're hardly near a Sept."
The smirk twists further, "so I probably know enough; more than most, anyway."
(tristan)
He’s making the trek back between his apartment where he rarely is anymore, and the warehouse, where he’s been keeping James company as much as possible yet again. Violin is in hand, of course, and long strides eat the cement under his feet even with backpack slung over shoulder (freshly washed clothes... oohhhh, aaahhhh...) and two plastic grocery bags in the other hand.
One contains Beer, of course.
The other, dinner. Hadn’t been to that little Thai place for a while, and tonights earnings went towards feeding whomever is at the condo tonight, or whomever he decides to give it two on the way back – extra bought for just such an occurrence. Winter is, after all, in the air.
The condo’s come into view, and it’s habit that pulls his gaze toward the balconies, not expecting to see anyone, though he pulls to a halt when he does. A moment’s contemplation, change of direction, and the pretty boy kin is heading across the lot.
(james)
the Ahroun (... hunter) watches the careful and controlled movements
while continued attention may be the signs of respect in a simple conversation
there's something more, something deeper: a study that's creating itself in his mind
her lack of energy for the sharp humor in response to the specific offer
how her words form a fraction slower than the whipcrack normality
... well... that sums things up
but first, his shoulders roll in a smooth shrug"Can read'n wri'e most've 'em."
nothing more than a vague response, really
once the offer was made it will always be open
and he wouldn't be dragging her off anywhere to teach in the name of officiality
a mediocre exchange of knowledge if she could ever someday use it
(knowledge is power, isn't that right, Jamey-boy?)
if, of course, she would ever be interested, or even mildly curiousonce again, silence falls between them
little more than the wet sounds of beer in bottle, and the crackle of tobacco burning
his hesitance to make the subsequent offer a bit on the obvious side
gaze draws to the navigation of ashes to tray instead of the woman"Some barbs in the' condo." offhand, given Kemp's just say no! attitude he's sure they're still there "'n other med'cal supply if y'dun' have 'em."
a glance to the footsteps on lot asphalt
(ooooooh.... read that wind.... Thaaaai fooood)
and only then, does the deep umber gaze return to Imogen - and holds
she looked bad that night, but so did everything
now that he's sure she hasn't returned to par
(now that he knows there were more wounds than she let on)
he's risking another flaying to offer the care she seems to need
mentally kicking himself for backing off to her decline that night
the sketchy phrasing - the look in dark eyes - reads more: For Gaia's sake Imogen tell me what to do to help. Please.
but he knows better than to say that(imogen)
She shakes her head slightly as he indicates that he can read and write most glyphs, reinforcing her previous refusal silently.Her hand pushes back strands of hair from her bruised cheekbone to glance sideways at James and his offer, a brief pause before she shakes her head slightly, "I can't stand barbituates," she explains, "I'll manage. Might take some o' the other supplies, though."
She had refused the night before; steadfastly and bluntly, and perhaps would have refused even had he pressed. Stubborn she is, enough to give even Garou a run for their money. She catches Tristan's approach out of the corner of her eye, raising a hand in greeting .. .and farewell, "I'm goin' inside."
Skip it for now. The cigarette had been burning in the ashtray, almost guttered out, and she reaches out to grind against the glass, before continuing the motion to walk inside, tugging the door shut behind her.
(tristan)
James notes his passage (not surprising with the aromatic feast to the senses) and chin lifts in something of a hello. Not because it’s the universal pack and kin hello done by all who hang around the condo, but because his hands are too full to do much else.It’s repeated with a flash of a smile for Imogen as he steps up onto the walk, seeing her head inside, and a bit concerned for the way she moves, as well as knowing that they’d been up to.. well.. something... last night. No specifics – but Imogen never calls and asks for help. Knowing she did concerned the kin as much as it did James.
The redhead disappears, and a few more long legged strides brings him to halt at the bottom of the stairs, watching James, judging in those quick silent moments how things went, how things are going, how.. well. Just how. That boyish grin flashes easily enough though, hand with grocerys lifted in offer.. “Thai – get it while it’s hot...”
(james)
Imogen can give most Garou a run for their money in stubbornness
James, it seems, can be just as steadfast in the resolve to never give up
(never. back. down.)
because for some reason he keeps making the offers that he knows she'll refuse
one would think he'd finally have learned by now and paid attention to the flesh-peeling lessons
she refused help that night, would have if he pressed, and he figured she'd keep up the trend tonight
so perhaps that explains the light of surprise that finds its way into deep umber
a brow lifting that she actually accepted something (she... knows how to do that??)
with the musician's approach, however, the response is nothing more than the trademark noda chill tightens in his gut, though
for her to call and ask for help - it must be bad
for her to give in and accept his help - it must be bad"Bring it by, lat'r."
quiet response to her farewell
Tristan's still a ways off, but doubts Imogen would want him to know of her state of (dis)repair
the Gnawer can respect that
so instead, he sets to gathering the bottles and tray
knowing the last thing the good Doctor would want to do is bend and stretch and clean up
a journey down the stairs to dump each into the trashcan Rolling Meadows provided a bit down the path
by the time he's returned the glass tray to her table and reached for his backpack seems dinner's arrived
a look back down the stairs at his kin says more than words could - or would, at this point
brows lift a little, gaze slants away, breath quietly sighs, shoulders move in a (helpless) shrug
he's done what he can. what he's allowed. and that has to be enough for now.
at least she's alive, and that's what matters"Can' pass that uh'"
coupled with a nod towards the neighboring balcony and the shift of weight back down the stairs
(tristan)
That look says more then words, and the reply is just silent, yet meaningful. He’s glad, worried, but glad, but that seems to be par for the course when you fly with the eagles (fortunately, he’s just a weasle, and won’t get sucked into any jet engines. Tonight, anyway.) and it’s all said with just a slight nod, and curl of lips.Instead of asking further for answers that won’t be answered, can’t be answered, he just grins and hefts those bags, turning to head toward the other stairs, up familiar stairs, toward a balcony he hasn’t sat on in ages. “Didn’t think you could... but brought beer to sweeten the deal anyway, just in case.”
Head turns to look behind him, wink tipped to his friend, before he hefts and sets the bags on the table, violin finding a spot out of the way and protected, pack slipping from shoulder to fall to worn wood beside it. Only then does he start unpacking the little cartons, a couple picked out, set on his side of the table, the rest left for James to pick and choose or dispose of however he wants. Two beers grabbed, tops popped, added to the veritable feast before he even turns and settles to a chair.
[cont'd next scene]
Posted by james at October 07, 2003 12:00 AM
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