June 13, 2004.06.13.04. - ghetto tour [virago] *p[riverfront - cont'd amongst all the OTHER stuff I cnpd]
(roxy)
All this activity was starting to make the factory seem like a three-ring circus. Roxanne decided against another beer, turning away to head back to her nook. She grabs up her boots, stomping into them and leans over to grab her jacket and keys.Roxanne looks over her shoulder at everything going on, swinging her gaze to settle on Imogen. Contemplative, “Hrmm…” should she bother to even say anything, “Hey, Imogen, you have a minute to spare.”
(virago)
Yes. Literally, circles - though that soon changes with the directions she is given - the sleek, silver jaguar pulling up to the curb ten minutes later. She could have thought to bring something a little more.. discreet and perhaps the thought (given the terrain) had even crossed her mind - but you make do with what is available.Excuses.
Its parked, she emerges - the suit that slides against her svelte form the shadow-depth of charcoal grey. And all she brings is herself - no notes, no bag, no folder brimming with information - and by the cut of her clothes, little more would be found beneath them.
A smile inserts itself at the sight of the gnawer, close-lipped and cool though her eyes cannot help that slight warming glance as it drinks in his form, before recentering on his face. "James, I take it?"
The accent does not slip.
(But then, James would not expect it to.)(james)
it doesn't take him long to reach the corner
Gnawers have that trademark land devouring stride
by the time she pulls up, he's leaning against the corner of the building
bricks digging into the curve of t-shirt clad shoulder
that smile twisting a little lopsided over his features
at least those she can see behind the frame of raggedy dreads"Mis......." it drifts off "Jos'phina." a tap of fingers agaisnt the notch in his jawline excusing the lack of formality by explaining the slur she must have picked up by now "What kin I do f'r ya?"
a glance to the car
not particularly for concern of it's poshly glaring neon light on such a rundown street
up to her to decide if it's safe to discuss on street corners
or if they should convene to another arena(nelly)
Bedroom eyes caught the tail lights of the expensive auto. Two faces. James one. She waved a hand to him as she passed on the opposite side of the street. Their territory, their business. She had some of her own.So her feet kept walking the three blocks towards the warehouse. Her brain twisting events of recent, and some that have not happened as of yet. Strange, fate's humor. A small frown creased her lips as she sauntered on.
Took a while to get there, but get there she did. Finding the front doors open was....odd... to her. And only caused the frown to dissipate upon her lips as a brow lifted gently. Omens.
(imogen)
You could almost say the kin looks out of place. She always does. It's almost a little more pointed now, because she's not actually dressed as she might, normally. Two modes, really. The business attire of her workday, or the more casual jeans and blouse that still holds some elegance, or perhaps that is simply the wearer. This is a third, with loosely fitted cotton pants, and a tank top, the black tattoo of her (former) tribe clearly visible on the curve of a single bicep. Running shoes.She glances at Roxanne as she speaks, and a shoulder twitches in a brief shrug, reaching out to grab the collar of her jacket with one hand, and her cell phone with the other, shrugging into the former, despite the stifling heat.
"Yeah," she says, straightening from her crouch, pocketing the cell phone.
(will)
*Seeing Nelly he ruffels his feathers and hops into the air. Flys softly over. Circles and comes to a light landing on her shoulder. Reaching up to preen her weat colored hair*
(nelly)
She paused just at the doorway, those bedroom blues drifting around the interrior of the warehouse. Face to face to face. No El Capitan. No General.She almost frowned, until the flutter of black wings caught her eye. A warm smile enveloping those pink lips, "Hey sugah, good to see ya again," one hand digging into her pocket to procure a platinum ring, lifting it to her shoulder, "For you. Ya'll made it out ok Ah take it?" she didn't turn her head, but her gaze cut to see him upon her shoulder.
(roxy)
Roxanne opted to sling the leather jacket over her shoulder, feeling the added weight of the pistols inside. It was too hot to even consider wearing it. A quick glance passes over Imogen as Roxanne cuts across the factory towards the couch."You still keep tabs on that sister of yours?" She asks in a casual tone, tilting her head at an angle. "I saw Miriam last week. Ain't sure if ya care to know what screwball activity she's up to now."
(will)
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! SHINY! *He takes it in his foot and bobs his head all fasinated by the ring. DING, there checked out will.*(virago)
This is his territory - its up to him to decide where they should hold the discussions - what is safe or otherwise, and she says as much. "Call me Josephina, or Virago. No miss." Tight, amused smile. "And are we fine to talk here, or would it perhaps be better moving elsewhere? Your call." She'll just take his word for it.And the truth? No she's not overly concerned about the vehicle - that oasis of opulence in this sea of desolation - holding the same sort of lack of regard for their belongings (replacement, rebuy, whatever) that many affluent people tend to have. Its questionable whether she has even really looked around her, examined the random, worn buildings, the pock-marked streets, a blatant trigger for the more security conscious mind. But then she's not here for the real estate, with work foremost on her mind.
(imogen)
A flicker of expression, too fast to see. "What screw ball activity is that?" she asks as she smoothes her collar briefly, before bending down to pick up the empty bottle of water.(nelly)
A soft chuckle shook her body gently, "Ah maybe ah should of given it to ya afta," one hand reaching up to rub his neck with a dirt stained finger, "Stories for anotha day then," before her gaze fell back to the interrior of the Eagle's nest. The two women who loved her o'so much in discussion. Kemp the only other face she could take solitude in. So she simply stood, a small grin upon her face, waiting till presence was noted and called upon.(roxy)
"Bank robbery. Hooked up with some wild group and a Walker I know," The expression she wore on her face remains neutral, the sobriety she opted that night allowed her to remember all the crazy shit mentioned.(james)
"Play't safe."muscular shoulders roll in a shrug
now whether James is playing precautiouarny tactics
or just wants a ride in the damn snazzy car
it's impossible to read intention on the Fostern's features
that quirkily lopsided grin could mean anything"S'go f'r a drive."
at least now when she's driving around in circles
it would seem she's picked up a local vagrant as a guide(imogen)
Eyebrow arches upward sharply, and her breath exhales in what might be gleaned as annoyance."When?"
(will)
*He looks at it all moon eyed and nods and looks up and leans into the scrinchings. He loves those* Silence is out back. Pissed off over what happened to you. I came by to give them the report.
*He settels on her shoulder gripping the ring*(roxy)
"Now that I ain't to sure of. The conversation died off after the cocaine and party drugs kicked in. S'all I know for now,"(virago)
That is, if he can be made out through tinted windows...The willowy Silver Fang inclines her head in agreement, returning to the vehicle and sliding back in. When James is settled, it pulls from the curb, angling lazily along those streets in random choosings unless James specifically suggests otherwise. "Your pack have been gathering information on Pyrells? Or perhaps, coordinating the attack the Wyrmfoe alluded to at the meeting, right?" Cut to the chase, her eyes remain on the road - but attention is almost indivisably elsewhere, a fact eased by the near emptiness of the roads.
(imogen)
Her head tilts briefly, in half question, or maybe she's listening to the repetitive hammering heard outside. "D'yeh think yeh might find out? When and where?"(nelly)
A flutter of lashes as her eyes cut to the left, "aw shite," a soft frown, "Figured ah'd get an ass whoopin of this," thumbs hooking into her front pockets. She didn't like Fenrir ass whoopins. Lot harder to take than momma's. Already her stomach and ass stung with the mear memories. She tensed slightly with an exhaled breath, "thanks for gettin mah back, sugahbee," a change of subject, "Ya seen Holly around lately?"(roxy)
"I'll see what I can dig up for ya. I felt ya should know before somethin' happens." She can hear the repetive hammering as well, briefly distracting her. Roxanne shakes her head, turning away from the couch. "I'll keep in touch. I'm out."(willy)
*He shakes his head, whispers to her*(imogen)
"'preciate that," murmered distractedly, as she finds the heat intolerable again and sheds the jacket, dropping it to the cooler floor, glancing toward Roxanne with a brief nod, "Thanks."(roxy)
"Welcome," a curt nod of her head to the other kin, before Roxanne heads out the door, leaving the circus behind her.(will)
*He waves a wing at Roxy as she passes* Hey!
*He holds out the ring and shows her. LOOK a SHINY!*(bnelly)
She stood at the opened baydoor of the warehouse, leaning against the frame with Will upon her other shoulder. Those blue eyes were cut to view the Crow's profile. A slender brow arched."No shit? Ah'd ask why but ah think this is for a latta discussion?" a question she put her words in. Those lazy blue eyes flashing to see a departure, Roxy, a soft smile, "sup gal," but her gaze fell back into the room.
(decker)
Door opens on the Modi just walking back in. Must've had enough of taking it out on a hammer, a nail, and some wood. Too damn dark to see outside anyway. The hammer dangling from one hand, nails between his teeth, he squints at Roxanne. Looks, sounds and feels a little calmer, at least. "Where you goin'?"(james)
the Gnawer's chin dips in a nod
at ease in the luxury of the car
even if he looks damned ridiculously out of place in it"Yeh, gettin wha' bits we can onnit." deep umber eyes swing over to the driver's side - cuttin' to the chase "Whatcha got?"
(will)
*Will nods to Nelly and the poor bird looks forlorn*(roxy)
Left hand lifts up to wave at Nelly and Will in passing, giving them a quick glance and a ghost of a smile. "Hey yourself."She turns her head back around, almost smacking into Decker on her way out. She catches herself, stepping back to allow him entrance and slips around the Modi. "Mah garage. Chinatown. I got some cars to fix. Figure it'd keep me out of trouble for awhile."
(belly)
Lower lip pouted in a frown as she reached up to scratch his neck again, "Don't worry sugah, shit pans out in the end.." those eyes flickered to Roxy...El Capitan's grand entrance. She pulled from the bay doorframe, thumbs hooking back into her belt loops.(will)
*Seeing angry decker he cowers down aginst Nelly's neck. Ducking his head and shielding his new ring.*mine.
(decker)
He doesn't stop, only slows, catching the door over from her and turning to ask, "Finished with my truck yet? Kemp busted 'is bike too."(newlly)
Her hand raised without thought to hover just upon the crow's shrinking body, as if sheilding him from the furry's fury.Um, what moon is it... her gaze lifted to the ceiling, then back down. Oh great.
(will)
*He leans aginst her hand. Will never makes allusions to being brave. Ask him, "you a coward?" and you get "You bet cha ass". Big pissed off Decker is enough to make him cower*(roxy)
A hand presses to the door, holding it open as she paused in the doorway, pivoting her torso to look back at the Modi. "Nah, ain't finished with it yet. Tacoma's in pieces at the moment and I already know about Kemp's bike. I'm luggin' it over to the shop when I leave here."(decker)
"Heh," 's all Decker has to say about the bike, and her assertation that she already knew all about it. Abashed, him? Naaah, never. "Later, Roxy," he tosses over his shoulder, and lets go the door.(nelly)
Her eyes narrowed just slightly as the rage collected in the room boosted just a bit from the Modi. She hand half the mind to do as the Raven and huddle up away from it all. But....A breath rose her rounded chest up and down, like two tanned ballons shoved into the tanktop waitin to pop, "How's ya sis?" gaze cutting to Will. Yes, the idal conversation continues until otherwise notified by the Eagles.
(will)
*He looks up to her and sits up a bit on her shoulder* All 5 are ok.. I think I'm stuck with this kinfolk one of you're people left in my care though... she's been gone weeks and stuff so I'm going to inroll her in school and what not.
*he bobs his head and looks around and back to Nelly* Thank you for asking though... Is there a way to know somone's tribe if they don't know it? I have no clue which.. um.. teachings Kat should be learning.(nelly)
She nodded, "Yeah, there are spirits to ask," a blink, "One of my people? Knight ya mean or wolvens?" brows furrowing slightly. She didn't recognize the name, Kat.(will)
*He shakes his head* i know where yall live. A garou. Mute, not the Get one. Another one. 12 year old girl.... She was left in my care like a month ago and well..
*he shurgs his wings* Not like I'm gonna put her out on the street. So I take her to work, feed her, clothe her, Teach her how to do stuff... picutres.. timed primer charges... pick locks.. you know. Important stuff...(decker)
Nelly and Will were talking. Damn, that bird did manage to sit on all the cute Garou chicks' shoulders, didn't he? Decker interrupts their little tete-a-tete, though. "Nell." -y. "You wanna claim 'is balls, ain't got a problem."(will)
*Will cowers again hiding his head under a wing but clutches the ring.*mine.(bnelly)
She smiled a bit, "Ah'll send Hal bah to take a see which..." she paused at Decker's booming voice. A blink, "To see which trahb she is," finishing her sentence at least. One finger rose again to scratch upon his neck as she stepped towards Decker, pausing a few feet out of arm's reach, just in case, "Claim who's balls, El Capitain?" that yes I'm a blond and no, no one is home look back upon her face.(imogen)
Roxy starts to leave and Imogen's fingers flick out in a brief gesture of farewell, turning away and brushing the palm of her head against her forehead, like that might ward off the impending headache. Will and Nell and then Decker talk in the background as the kinfolk crosses the area to drop the plastic bottle in the oil barrel.(will)
the guy from last night.
*little squeeky voice*(decker)
Decker just nods at Will's assertation. Guy from last night. Yeah. He still had a bottle of beer with him. It's empty now, though. He tosses it at the oil barrel trashcan......and misses. Anyone still surprised?
(will)
*At the crash. Will shudders. 3 black feathers POOF out and float softly to the floor*(nelly)
Those thick black lashes fluttered. She had half the mind to say, Oh, not Erik's? But why pull the tiger by its tail when its already pissed off? So she kept her retorts to herself, for now. A smile soft as she leaned her weight upon her left foot. The stronger leg that one."Ah, well bit odd an Nachfaren die fienrir AEtling would claim a," looking to Will, "What'd he say," brows pursing a moment before her gaze rounded back upon Decker, "Filthy Urrah to breed true," she took a breath, shrugged, "He's still round. Ain't makin no claim but saw to it his healins. He's safe, ain't no thang if ya don't got a problem with what happened," a bat of lashes. Yeah, chalk it off. No big deal, "Ya headman around?"
(virago)
"You may have some idea - you were there at the meeting with the Wyrmfoe, weren't you?" Warm, azure eyes slice towards the gnawer briefly, a light caress over his face, before returning to the run of the night-darkened road. Within the car, the engine is a muted, silent purr, as are any of the other noises from without, affording an exclusive bubble from whatever neighbourhood noises may attempt to penetrate."In any event, a subsidiary company, as well as my Montreuil Corporation and the corporation by James Vaughn have been set up over the past few weeks to obtain shares from the three head Pyrells companies - Acquisitions, Developments and Telecom. We've been waiting for some indication on when to move ahead with a takeover, hostile if necessary, in an attempt to assume control of all three corporations. The timing just happens to be ideal this Friday, if I am able to speak to the Wyrmfoe and get his agreement - an aspect I will not find terribly difficult given his ah, enthusiasm, for action."
On slow, sedate wheels, the Jaguar rounds a corner with the flare of its light scoring deep shadows and worn metal and wooden frames. "I'm not sure how much you understand of the workings of the stock market, but we're going to attempt to a takeover Friday morning which will set the executives of Pyrells, including the father, into emergency action. Montreuil Corporation plans to take advantage of this by an approach to arrange a meeting that night - time and place to be discussed. We expect the Pyrell to be aware, as soon as we enact the dawn raid that morning, that we may be behind it. But at the moment, Pyrell is desperate - the companies are sinking and the executives will not refuse a possible offer of refinancing from a reputable securities and investment corporation."
(decker)
A long pause.
"I got a problem with'it."Then a sniff. A glance around, like maybe he could check just by looking. Nevermind the maze of pipes and catwalks, boilers and ladders. "Naw. 'S out." That's it. The Fenrir always did play their cards close to their chest.
(james)
James nods
it's either that he's simply following
or has a basic high school book understanding of economics
but he mainly allows her to continue in his silence
pointing a direction here and there to make the drive at least interesting"Go'n"
he's not bothering to parrot this through to his packmates just yet
figuring there's going to have to be a simplified version
(will)
*He peeks out at Nelly and blinks. A bit... confused*(nelly)
Nodding her head, "Need the lowdown on what happened again, or somethin..." she trailed off, her gaze watching the Modi carefully. A nod of her head upon Adonis's absence. Or was he just hiding his Jarl from her? Who the hell knew.(will)
*He looks between them. Will was a reporter in the day, a corax for life, hes quick to pick up on things.*(imogen)
Downward glance toward the shattered glass some distance to her left, a brief inhalation of alcoholic fumes remniscent of his drink before stepping away and around it, walking back to where she'd left her jacket, cell phone, pager. Pager is hooked to the waistband, plastic sliding against her hip as she fits it against the cotton.Cell phone follows, small sleek. Clipped to her side. Hair pushed back away from her face before picking up her jacket and pulling it back on again, obscuring slender arms and tattoo beneath the unbreathable fabric of suede.
(virago)
"We have not been able to get details on the Executive's schedule - his personnel either did not know, or were not forthcoming enough," a faint grimace twists those pink-glossed lips as she grudgingly admits, "It was more difficult than envisioned in the short amount of time that we have." Admittance of failure? As close as she's going to get. "But I believe the CEO can be lured by the meeting. The only catch is - if he suspects its a trap, then he's not going to be coming alone. Given the importance of the meeting, however, his not coming at all would be a surprise. He's just going to ensure that he's heavily.. fortified. We need to counter that."(james)
if she's bordering on an admittance of failure
the Ahroun's discreet enough to ignore it
(even if he'd inwardly smirk at a Fang's hinting at such)
nodding to assimilate the information at hand"'n tha's where you think we c'me in."
(decker)
Decker gives Nelly something of a strange look. Christ the woman was strange. Wyldtouched all right. Since neither of them were speaking anymore, and since he had little else to say, he heads off. Just turns and walks away, like that. Pauses where the bottle had shattered, picking a few of the largest pieces up and chucking them into the can. It just makes the spill all the more dangerous -- in the dim light, the remaining shards, small, are barely visible as glistens of glass splinters on the ground."Who called?" He's talking to Imogen now, crouching, looking up at her. Another fragment of glass is picked up, tossed into the can.
(nelly)
Brows furrowed in confusion, "Um," watching the Fenrir skulk off, "Does this mean he does or does not want to.." mumbling softly before her voice lifted, "Would it be intrusive to ask for an elaboration on ya problem of it, sugah?" hey the man said he had a problem. Can't have that with the Eagles. Nope.(will)
*He ruffels* He's saying it aint right you were treated like that and iffin' you don't take his balls, Silence might take um himself.... I think. Or rather he's not all peachy cool with the actions of the slug.
*Head bobs*
Imogen)
She glances across the dimness toward the hulking Fenrir, head bent from briefly readjusting the accoutrements she sports. Cell phone, pager, "Josephina de Valois-Montreuil," she says, repeating the mouthful of a name with casual ease, "She sounded french." As if that qualification was somehow important.Dark eyes flick back toward Nelly as she speaks.
(Decker)
"Yeah?" He frowns at this, too -- as though her being french somehow offended him. "Hell'd she want?"Then he turns to face Nelly, rising back to his feet. Face blank -- a wall. Poker sharks couldn't read him now. One hand extends over the trash can, the fingers moving to dust themselves of glass shards, and the silence stretches long. He takes his damn time about it.
"Yeah. It would."
Not the type to cry out his troubles over a bottle of beer, Decker. On that note he kicks the last of the shards out of the way and heads out back, toward his newly (semi-) completed shed.
(nelly)
Her eyes cut to the raven. Translation from a corax. Yes, she's been too long from the old Sept. Guess it could be a good thing. As she was reminded so bludgingly the other night, she wasn't of them. Nodding her head with a frown. She didn't want to take anyone's balls. His balls would produce more of the purest breeds of Fenrir she had come to see in a long while. And still the fact remains that she WASN'T a Get. It would be lost on her. So knowing that, the man had to be disfunctional in some social standing within the tribe for them to send him for her. That, or someone from her past was making a really sore mistake. So, should she breed with the bastard or shouldn't she?One hand reached up to scratch her cheek. Man, and this shit isn't even the reason I came. Well, not fully. One of the reasons. Maybe. Fuckit.
"Look, man, whatever," shrugs, "Watcha backs on the GWs. Don't go runnin into combat against Pyrell until we get a cure for their bio warfare strand... well, atleast that is mah personal advice...take it or leave it...thanks for ya tahm, ya know where t'fahnd me..." she turned upon her heels then, heading out of the warehouse, "Thanks again, Will for gettin mah back on this. Ah'll be up at the caern this week, come bah when ya got tahm..."
(will)
*He bobs his head to her and then she's turning to go. Will looks around and decides to just hang out on her shoulder till she waved him off. He thinks the Eagals just closed open mic night. Best to leave while you're ahead and not missing yours* Shiny!
*he looks at the ring as he rides Nelly out*(nbelly)
Back outside, she made a beeline out of their territory and into her own... grumbling all the while, "Goddamn intratriahbalbullshit..."(imogen)
She waits until Nelly and Will leave, her gaze following their departure, before glancing back to answer Rohl, "To talk with one of th' Eagles." A brief flicker of what might be distaste flickers across her features. What six months ago was too fast to catch might be no slower but perhaps more recognizeable across her features. There and gone again. "And then I s'pose she wanted t' meet, since James left not long afterward."(imogen)
"How tha fuck she have yer number then?" And if she wasn't following already -- and he doubted she was -- "Well, ya comin'?"(imogen)
She shakes her head briefly, her brow furrowing for a moment before forcing clear, "Yeh can get it, if yeh know where t'look. S'like my pager." There isn't an actual answer to his question, response offered by way of the fact she begins to follow.(decker)
"Yeah whatever." Subject closed.Outside, night. Sun's gone. Dark's risen. Lake is a black splotch in the far hazy distance. Humidity remains high. Heat lingers in the air, somehow worse for the darkness. Shirts and shoes are obsolete in this weather. She'd passed his t-shirts all rumpled up at the foot of his bedroll on the way out.
Doesn't head for his new shack though. Just walks out. Leans against the side of the factory. Still in cargoes, rolled up, he's got plenty of pockets to go through and he goes through them, one by one, until he finds his matches, his joint supplies. Rolling one, "So fuck'dya git bruised from?"
(imogen)
One can almost feel the air cooling with the sun set, tangible, though the air is still heavy and laden with moisture.She glances at her wrist, briefly, fingers of the opposite hand pushing back the cuff of her jacket to inspect the darkening hues that smudge across her pale flesh. "Yeh still think I'm kiddin' about askin' James to show me how to fight?" a question for her answer.
(decker)
He stops rolling. "He bruised ya?" Question for question -- though, his was a good deal more hostile.
(imogen)
"Don't."
Hostility can and will be matched. Hers is accurately expressed in a single flat word.Her hand drops, her wrist flicking a few times to resettle the cuff as she looks at him, eyes narrowing briefly so his face is framed in a rim of copper.
"Just don't."
(decker)
"Don't what."Hostility? This is hostility. Every moment of his life was made for war. He was born for it. Bred for it. Raised for it. He has no other purpose. NONE. Nothing but war. Fenrir and Modi, his beginning, end, and every last breath drawn in between -- destined only for one thing.
War.
Battle.
Fighting.Fighting her: it just happens again and again, though he does try, he tries damn hard, to stop it. And no matter how hard he tries, nature wins out. Nature vs. nurture -- what's the difference, when it's one and the same?
"Don't what." He throws the half rolled joint aside. There won't be that salvation tonight. "Don't giv'a shit? Don't git pissed off when yer bruised? Don't worry 'boutcha? Don't care? That it?"
(imogen)
It's his excuse, though he never offers her one.
The war. The battle. The fighting. Warrior race. Warrior moon. Warrior tribe. A cycle that spins in on itself, brutally hard, brutally fast, in an eddying pool of the rage that she sometimes nearly chokes on.Her excuse is so much paler.
It always works out this way: an argument and they're miles apart, her standing several feet away from the factory door, him standing against the wall.
His litany of don'ts is answered by a quick fierce negative motion of her head. Silence ticks out and she's swallowing her words. Really, she doesn't want to fight either. Somethings are inevitable. "Who're you gonna be pissed at? eh? Him or me?"
(decker)
"Fuck off, Imogen." What a mature response that was: he won't deign to answer that. Or can't. He's pissed at her, at James -- at both, all, everything, fuck it all, kill it all. "Fuck's with you anyway? Always so -- fuckin' obsessed, goddammit Imogen, 'bout keepin' yerself independent 'n shit. Strong. Whatever."He still has matches. He strikes on. Has no joint to light. Throws it aside on a short, sharp, impatient gesture. Stalks off across the distance between the factory and the shack. There's no door, nothing to sit on inside. There's no point in going over but he goes anyway. It was his. She said it best. It was his.
And her? Well, fuck. She wasn't his. Not really; not ever. She was her own.
He tries again, the pot, the paper, the roll. In the staggering silence distances are unbreachable. The lake is so far. She's farther. She's somewhere behind him. He turns to face her again. He looks for words that run away from him. He chases them but cannot catch them. They slip between his fingers and scatter to the four winds. He's left bereft, nothing but the most inane things to say.
"Just don't like ta see ya bruised. 'S it." It sounds weak. His mouth tightens. He lights the joint clenched between his teeth and throws the match away, angrily, hurling it overhand, over and over, tumbling into dry brush where it could easily start a fire but, tonight at least, does not. "'S all. That a problem?"
(virago)
"Ideally, yes. I hear you're a war pack - and well... mine is not. I really do not know the arsenal this BSD has at his disposal though I assume that some remains despite the loss of the majority of his family. There has been well enough time for reinforcements to be called. The most I can do is set this meeting up and get him where we know where he will be so the assassination can be executed. He stands in the way of the executive board agreeing to this takeover in any form except hostile, and for the security of the Caern, that makes his elimination more than necessary. Once he is gone, I have no hesitation whatsoever in believing that the board of Acquisitions, and after then Developments and Telecom, will agree to my Corporations offer."Around and around the Jaguar goes, as smooth and precise as the voice which dominates the interior of that frame. When she finishes, she glances again at the gnawer to gauge the expression on his face - the offer of more information ready on her lips, should he need it. One more thing is added, however, "Of course, the Wyrmfoe still needs to be informed should we agree to a plan of action along these lines. I was unable to get hold of him before, hence my coming to discuss it first with the Eagles."
(james)
there's another nod, of which Josephina could really gague anything
street performer than James is, those skills carry over into under-enhancing, as well
casually nodding as the information clicks together in ways most useful
half of whatever expression he may wear is hidden by curtain of heavy dreads
since things began happening before the Gnawer was able to find the shower
jungle-vine hair is probably more disarrayed than normal
adding to the heavy dose of Rage trapped in the expensive car
(not to mention he could probably use sommore deoderant soon, titan strength only lasts so long - luckily it has at least a little while longer)
it must make an interesting conversational mix"Yeh, s'why we came a Ch'cago." Eagles reputation does proceed them, like it or not "I c'n find th' Wyrmfoe 'n get 'iz 'pinion a things. I'll need names, num'rs, any'n ev'ry preci'e detail a y'r plans so I c'n make sure ours' savvy 'n work 'geth'r." the unsaid part being if we decide to go this route, however the Ahroun feels she's sharp enough to catch onto that in order to keep his own slurred responses as breif and clear as possible in the name of expedition "'n c'n use whatev'r means a gettin' back to you deem' bes'."
a pause - the Gnawer taking his turn to swing dark gaze over
finger flicked to indicate another direction on this impromptu tour
while he mainly keeps to Eagle claimed territory
don't be surprised if a few blocks meander into other areas
the boundary borderlands shared by distinct packs
it's clear he knows his way around the town
just as it's clear that even though he looks anything like a businessman
raggedyman vagrant out of place in the lavish car next to pretty, sleek Fang
he's fairly skilled at conducting negotionations
(he's the pack PR guy, after all)
as well as reading his counterpart"What else y'go'?"
(imogen)
Fuck off, Imogen.
Her hands make a brief abrupt gesture, palms upturned toward the sky, sharp enough and hard enough to be almost a 'what the fuck?' gesture, as she turns abruptly away from him, taking a few sharp, heated paces away, uselessly because back here, there is no where to go. His words hammer at her back. Her independence, her strength.Are you mine?
She'd said yes. Maybe she'd lied.
It might be impossible.It was cooler with the sun down, and still too hot for her tastes. She strips out of her jacket again, dropping it to the ground as she turns to look over her shoulder at him as he stalks away, the palms of her hands brushing restlessly against the fabric of her pants, jaw tightening and loosening spasmodically.
"I don't want yeh goin' and takin' it out on 'im," she says finally when he's done, looking at him in the shadow. "He's doin' it because I asked him." As a favour.
In a way, Imogen is holding up her end of the bargain. She'd do this anyway.
(decker)
Her jacket dropped -- he stoops, fast, fast, unbelievably so for all his musculature, all his strength, catches it before it ever hits the ground. No, go back. Stoops? Swoops. Like an eagle. Snaps her coat out with a switch of his wrist, tosses it aside -- atop a rickety sawhorse on which much of the shed was constructed."Answer my fuckin' question," he fires back, immediately. What question, she might ask -- he doesn't give her a chance. Some nights he lets things go. Tonight, he dogs her. Hounds her heels. Demands answers. "'Sit a problem?"
And then, only then -- "Ain't gonna take it out on nobody."
(imogen)
Consider the dance between them: She drops the jacket and he swoops down to pick it up. Imogen steps away, abruptly, space arcing between them, turning back to watch him throw the jacket. Distantly, note the symmetry of the action."Then," issued almost through clenched teeth, "It's not a problem."
Or, if it is, she'll deal with. Take your pick.
(decker)
There's a second.
An instant.
A split-infinity of dreadful silence.Then he turns and puts his fist through the wall.
"Yer fuckin impossible, Imogen." It's not a shout; it's a hiss, a snarl of a whisper. "'S like no matter what I say, what I do, 's always a battle fer ya. Always a fuckin' competition. Who's gonna give in first. Who's gonna pussy out first, show weakness."
Brick crumbling inward around his fist; the knuckles almost certainly cracked, if not shattered; no matter. He pulls his hand out of the hole in the wall, the crumbling brick, the dust, the debris. His motion is always so fast, unexpectedly so; for all his strength, so evident in the perfect ripple of muscle from fist to forearm to bicep/tricep to shoulder, to back -- for all that, his speed was always his strongest asset. His lightning quickness. His devastating, vicious reflexes.
He shakes his fist out. She can hear the bones grinding and popping, and then, when he shifts -- just that arm, nothing else -- she can hear them fusing and cracking back together.
"Yer fuckin' impossible," he repeats -- spits -- and walks away.
(imogen)
Not
a
sound.There should have been something. A scream, a curse, a startled yelp. Some reaction to the violence that is auditory. It's only instinct. You scream so people can come to your rescue. You scream so people know you are in danger. That she nearly leaps three feet out of her skin in a flinch that is remniscent of instinctual reactions and self preservation is a given. Her muscles tense and coil like a spring, the flight or fight reaction. With Imogen, it's always fight.
She can smell the brick dusk in the air. And maybe his blood, even as it heals.
She stares in tense jawed silence at the indentation in the brick, and it's a wonder her molars do not snap at the roots at the strain. Toward him, and his back as he stalks away.
Their arguments all end one of a finite number of ways. This is one of them. He stalks off, and she walks in the opposite direction. Snatching her jacket off the sawhorse and pratically snapping it over her shoulders before she does just that, back through the back door and out toward the front.
(decker)
But he pursues her.(Of course he does. How many arguments end like this? Without end. Without conclusion. Without finish. Unresolved -- unended.
This one would be different.)
He pursues her -- cuts her off. Cuts in front of her and turns to face her, fast, turning on a dime, a fucking ferrari of a Modi, a fucking mountain cat of a man, heels digging into dirt and skidding back as he whirls, wheels, turns -- she almost expects him to show his teeth.
She's not quite in the door. He slams it behind him. Shuts the factory away. Shuts them outside.
"Don't you walk away." Never loud, now he's quieter than ever. She's learned to fear his silences, or at least be wary of them -- one doubts Imogen ever learns to fear anything. She learns to conquer her fears. Not the other way around.
"Don't you walk away," again. "Gimme a fuckin' answer, Imogen. You answer me this time. Fuck's with ya. Why's it always 'bout winnin' with ya. Fuck'd I ever do ta make ya think I was -- shit, tryin' ta dominate ya?"
(virago)
He mentioned speaking to the Wyrmfoe, and her glance is shifting across to him again - just a quick, corner of her eye look, before she's asserting quietly afterwards, "I will be speaking to him too." Its not just that she doesn't trust the bonegnawer to relay the information accurately - its exactly that. Of course, the chances of Mother's Riddle understanding the complexities of corporate takeover and executive responsibility are, from her previous observations, most likely limited. However, given the intricacies of this process - she was willing to try, and make him retain some form of appreciation for what was going on.It was all about timing, after all.
Most of the remaining information she had would not be of much use to him - unless he wished to know the intricacies of how what was happening on the corporate side was possible. That the company was going to fold, that the executive were in dissension - with the CEO clearly on one side and not wanting the removal of the company from the public market (a surprise. such a removal would give him greater control with the diminishing of shareholders), and being fought from within. It made that prospect of success of the meeting all that more possible, the pressure on the CEO to be there all that more complete - from himself to steer negotiations, and from the other executives to hear what Montreuil Corporation had to say.
The choice of bankrupcty - or dollar signs.
"You know of the daughter, right?"
The car is manouevred as James directs, along the dark streets lined with old warehouses, abandoned and utilised buildings, industrial wastelands spreading out and uneven like the growth of a blight on the land. It surprised her not that his pack would dominate such a place, the harsh exterior an assumed indication of the sort of denizens it would house. Not that the steel towers of downtown did not have its own distinctive favourites. Headlights beam around a corner, a three twin shining eyes look up - rats - Virago's gaze catching them with a repressed shudder.
"I only know of her. More information would be appreciated, if you have it. Knowing where she sits in the scheme of things is information we're going to need if we're going to use that meeting as a lure."
(james)
"Of cour'."the quickly assertive pounce of control seemingly taken in stride
it seems as if the lanky Gnawer didn't really expect otherwise
Fang or not, he respects her intimate knowledge of the plan
not to mention understanding of it's intricacies
seems the Fostern trusts her enough to deliver it clearly to the Wyrmfoe
he just wants to make sure he understands as much as possible, too
(knoweldge is power, after all)"Fig're i's jus' easier a me gettin' hold've 'im." the Ahroun pauses, taking a few quick whifs of re-circulated air, and not finding what he's searching for, takes a moment to extract the pack of Camel's from a cargo pocket and hold them up with a lifted brow of question - her car, her rules - and only at the inclination of her head does Zippo snap open, setting fire to the end tip of cancerous stick, and the instrument's of a mere mortal's death set on the center armrest within her reach should she choose.... he is a Hood beneath Warrior's exterior, and if she's providing the information, at the very least he could provide the nicoteine "We're'n th' same boat a you."
a pause, here
filled with deep exhale of fragrantly poisonous smoke
and the flick of automatic window sinking half an inch
creating a current to draw the grey plumes out into the night
Warrior, yes. Dirty, yes. Gnawer, yes. - but considerate"We know've her.... 'n tha' she s'me key a th' whole sh'bang..... " muscular shoulders roll against padded leather backrest, covering squeaking mutely as if the very rat spotlighted down the road "....but that it."
(imogen)
Don't you walk away.
"You walked first." Accusation.
And each word is bitten off in perfect british pronounciation. She falls a step backward, the distance necessary for her instinct. The distance necessary for her safety."Look at you. Right now." She is not deadly quiet. She has low tones, too, dangerous and cold, a tone that usually means she will be hurtful on purpose, stabbing precisely to find the way to tender spots. This time, she is, quite simply, furious. "Look at what yeh did," meaning cutting her off, the whole in the wall, or turning protector over a bruise.
Quiet tones now, thrown his way as she jerks her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, sealing her bare arms beneath suede once more, "s'not about winning. It's about agreein' f'r the right reasons."
(decker)
Look at you.He looks -- at the wall. The hole in it. The shattered brick. Had he even felt it give? Had he even felt his knuckles giving, is the question that should be asked. Does he even feel pain anymore -- or does the gift turn itself on automatically now, thoughtlessly, until he doesn't feel pain, doesn't feel anything; is numb, is a fucking robot of a Modi, the perfect killing machine.
He raises a hand. Brushes away the debris at the edges of the shattered brick. Brushes away bits of brick, bits of mortar. Brushes it away and then, only then, rub a hand over his throbbing, healing knuckles. A shake of his hand -- it snaps back to homid form, the form fitting the rest of his body perfect. No one could ever complain about his perfection of form. None of his many, many flaws were manifest there.
It was a wall.
It could've easily been her face."Fuckit," for all his snarling, he's the one to walk away -- again. Pulls open the door he'd just slammed shut on her. "'N I'm walkin' away now."
(imogen)
She doesn't follow the gesture of his hand with her eyes, to watch the tracing of his hand over the damage he had caused. To be truthful, she doesn't want to see the extent of it, the possibility behind it. Human (kinfolk) flesh gives much more easily than brick. She feels no need to be reminded at the extent of the damage he can cause.He walks past her and she takes a few steps forward, hand pausing on the door jamb, fingers drawing inward to the palm of her hand, forming a loose fist. Her knuckles rap briefly upon the doorframe, a hollow metal sound. A centring for her to make her decision perhaps.
"I'd rather you didn't." Quietly said so even his hearing was strained to have heard it.
(decker)
Fuckin' gutshot.The door open two inches. Two inches. Two inches, quivering, slightly, because he was quivering. Adrenaline/rage a potent cocktail in his veins, beating out of him like a soundless drum rhythm, thudding out of him, endless.
She'd rather he didn't.
And really, when it came down to it, when has he ever refused her anything?He lets the damn door shut again. His hand on the handle, his head down; he almost closes his eyes, to think, to gather himself, except that seemed so weak. So instead he turns, faces her.
Quiet now, quiet but not hardedged, "Why the fuck you do that, Imogen?"
(virago)
"She seems the key?"One pale, platinum eyebrow arches sharply - another peripheral glances blading his way. The dark of her eyes, plunged deeper within the this car and the striating street lamps which flicker and penetrate through, makes the cream of her face all that more paler and the subtle distinction of that brow even less, merging like a winged, furrowed line into smooth skin. Shadows of light.
Try as the gnawer might, some of that smoke enters the care, flaring delicate nostrils wide at the scent. Not a flinch, but the slight stir of craving, as she reaches over and flips open the gear box - rifling through to take her own pack without. Yves St Laurent - designer minty freshness, a thin elegant and ivory stick is twirled light between her fingers before placed (pink smudges, pink smears) between the firm grip of her lips. The fire reflects in her eyes in one, welcoming flare, before subsiding with the leisurely suck of fumes within.
Hold.
Exhale."I only know that she exists - if you have anything at all you can give me, I would appreciate it. Even if its just your thoughts."
(james)
dark eyes strafe left to follow her movements
merely the predator's response to periphreal flickers
curiosity spawning the smokeless inhale (Yves St Laurent) and placing it's culinary tone (minty) amongst designer shades (ivory) against flushed lipstick and creamy complexion
oddly, it's the cigarette he watches
not the mouth pursed around it
(twinge of a distant memory pushed away too fast for recognition)"Dunna much more'n tha'." again, that rat-chittering shrug pulling thin cotton between two forms of flesh - one tanned by Chicago's summer sun and darkened by devastating scars, the other tanned by some nameless professional and darkened only by the shadows interior lights throw obliquely off his lanky frame "Know she got s'm'thin' a do wi' gettin a sen'er, but we jus' start'd talkin' 'bout it t'nigh'. Dunn get far 'fore you rang up Dr. Slaught'r....."
the thought drifts away towards another, sudden, conclusion
the Fostern helping himself to the contents of the glovebox before him
plucking some forgotten gas receipt shoved into its depths
the pen he's produced actually comes from his own pocket
scrawling down two numbers and setting the slip on the dashboard within easy reach".... use tha'n, nex' time. S'mine, but a kin's got't f'r nah. She c'n fine me fas' nuff." a polite circumference of a request not to bother Imogen again, for she is not their answering service "'r you c'n ask 'er a not pick'p th' call 'n leave a mess'ge, I check'm of'n since I ain't go' th' phone. Secon' num'er's Tris'n, my bro, he c'n fine me 'r any a th' pack fas'r."
(imogen)
The corner of her mouth tightens briefly, a brief twitch that has nothing to do with humour.Hands slide into her jacket pockets and out again. Asking him to stay when he's chosen to live is quite possibly one of the most dangerous things she's done. It seems to follow pattern that when he walks away. She lets him.
Rage beats its own pulse in the back of her head, unnerving her and sending synpases firing unhappy messages. It's an emotion she controls, not an emotion she does not feel.
"Because I wasn't lookin' for a row," a little late for that, "no matter what yeh think."
(decker)
The pause could go on forever.
The distance could go on forever.
The night could go on forever--The plains about them. The flat expanses of the earth. The subtle curve of the horizon. The great blueblack bowl of the sky overhead; the quality reflected in her eyes, even as her hair was reflect in the dawn and the dusk. Not the color per se, but the feel of it; the burn of the dawn, the inscrutability of the night sky overhead.
In a city you can't see the stars very well. Sometimes, that seems a pity to him.
Exhaling, "I know you wasn't." He looks away. The wall. The crumbling brick. The hole he'd made. A sense of shame. Long ago he'd stopped feeling pride for his strength. Long ago, he'd begun to fear it. Again his fingertips brush it, brushing debris away from the hole, as though that made it better. "Wasn't neither. I just," pause; he looks for words and she can almost see him reaching for them, the small elusive creatures he will never, ever in his life master, "don't fuckin' git ya."
It's the closest he can get to the truth: he doesn't understand her fierce independence. He doesn't understand why she --
"Cain'tcha trust me?"
(imogen)
With what?
not a question she'll ask.Her eyes fall to rest on the damage caused by his fist and that might be an answer, really. How to trust someone so volitile. How to trust anyone like that with anything more than the assurance that they will never quite do what is expected.
Trust has so many different flavours. Difference between trusting someone to always punch the wall, and not your face, and trusting someone enough to share thoughts and experiences. Trusting someone enough to not always be fearing the worst, and to trust them enough to believe what they say.
To trust someone to offer you help.
And to trust them to share your bed.Different flavours of trust. Her dark gaze, eyes the colour of midnight spaces between the stars, like the farthest ocean depths, returns to him and away from the crater of his fist.
"Rohl..." the number of times she's used his first name can be counted on two hands. The sentence trails off, and eloquent she can be, but never in this.
Lips compress, jaw tightening briefly before the thread is picked up and she finishes the sentence differently, perhaps, than she had begun it, "I trust you more than most."
(decker)
It's more than he'd expected.
[ it's not good enough. ]And he's suddenly weary. Tired of fighting. How many times can he realize that? That he's tired of the arguments, tired of the disagreements, tired of fighting with her, tired of taking it out on her? Happily ever after's boring, but fuck, he's had about enough of excitement. And anyway, when you get down to it, she didn't deserve to the shouted at, threatened and bullied every other night.
So he slouches back against the wall. Tonight was not a night for joints. Two he'd started; two he'd failed. A third now, rolled slowly, taking his time, putting his effort and his mind on that, and only that.
Doesn't light it. Just holds it. Looks at her, as he must eventually. Rohl, she calls him. He has nothing to call her at this moment.
"Know that too."
It seems the best, or only, response.(imogen)
When it's not an argument words have a quota. There are only so many things that can be said, before the quota is reached, their time is up. Only so many words until it devolves into a fight. Only so many words until it peters out into silence that stretches between them, taut and tangible, like a guitar string that hums long after being touched.Only so long until she loses the energy to make herself understood. She only has a nod to offer his way as he speaks, no indicator that she is relieved by what she has heard, or skeptical of his veracity.
Her gaze dives away toward shadow, and just as quickly, back again, her teeth scraping across her lower lip in a rare expression of uncertainty. "I'm going to go," quietly. Four am. Monday morning. She might very well just intend to drive in to work.
(virago)
The frown creasing that silken brow is provoked not by the polite request, or the run of foreign fingers through her glove box [white bags. white pills.] in an intrusion uninvited. No, its for that damned accent - which had started out interesting, but as the slurs increase and her comprehension doesn't, begins to threaten a headache. She bites back the request to repeat - let the silence draw out as fingers accept the numbers from his hand - even while she's still deciphering the majority of what he just said.It was so much easier when there were only three words.
[Like a dawn.]"Ok, not a problem." Talk to her about English winters? She's been through them - and Imogen, by tone, seemed to embody it. Sharp contrast to the cool layer which Josephina often allowed to cloak her shoulders, rueful attempts to hide (either that, or it really is the drive of business) the sultry personality beneath. "When do you think to be able to get a hold of the Wyrmfoe?"
The circles continuing, in ever closing tightness. Familiar sights - marked very familiar to one whose territory this is - suggests a gradual return to the street corner.
(james)
the circles are dwindling to ever-tighter spirals
familiar sights beginning to pinpoint the corners
it's all easy enough for the guttermutt to recognize
yet he still offers the occasional prompt for direction
gradually returning them to the primary target of the eveningshe bites back the request to repeat
but the Fostern can sense the pause for her translation
or at the very least smell her growing frustration
(feel the flux of Rage.... but maybe that's only you, Mr. Full Moon, trapped in this car)
so he makes sure to slow it down a little more
all in the name of clarity"Gotta 'noth'r mission t'nigh'..... but I c'n send a mess'ge to'm we'll wanna fine 'm soon as possible, 'n drop by 'iz digs t'morrow, if it's a'ight wi' you." it allows them all time to prepare, not to mention gives James the opportunity to educate his packmates in the general concept of hostile corporate takeovers which will - hopefully - support their plan of more traditional aggressive negotiations in the near future "Wha's th' bes' way t' reach you'n yours?"
that she called Imogen - he obviously does not have her number
and while the good Doctor may embody the unforgiving winters of England
and Josephina portrays a less severe chill in her controlled serenity
James is - yet again - a complete and utter opposite
warm and easy from the slurred tones to the low shine of earth-colored eyes
hard to imagine the mellow Gnawer is truly just a ruthless killer pressed for precious time
not with that lopsided grin that never really goes away
or the casual negligence each phrase gets waved by
smoke coiling towards upholstered roof before the Camel's stubbed out in the tray(decker)
Another nod up; very slight; barely a response at all, barely seen.But when she reaches for the heavy doorhandle he turns his head to face her. His shoulders to the wall, slouched down, he doesn't move other than that. But it's enough.
Enough to see her. Enough to study her, his grey eyes moving over her carefully, thoughtfully, taking her in. She was older, by nearly a decade. She'd seen more. Learned more. Knew more. Accomplished more. Was more, though perhaps that varied upon whom you asked.
She's going to go, she says. After a pause, he replies, or asks, "Come with ya?"
(imogen)
His gaze on her, the studying of her, draws her attention from her departure, dark eyes turning to meet grey as she pauses, a hand on the door.After a beat, she nods, turning the handle to the door and drawing it open for the third time since she'd stepped outside with him.
"Yeah." Quietly, tipping her head in the direction she was going, "Com'on."
(virago)
The virago[--evidence of that, just bide your time] is being lazy with her own cigarette, held lax between two finger out her own window, before slipping between flesh to be sucked dry [I lavish on monsters. I am no gentle fiend.], slow exhalation, then the scatter fire burst of ash. A quarter left and his is out, a minute more and so is hers, scattering across the cracked and worn bitumen like a lurching falling red star."That sounds fine."
The car slows its pace and pulls to the same curb where they had met, the engine a rumbling quiet purr as one hand drops from the steering wheel. To the request of contact details, that same hand reaches out and over his leg to the gear box - its not accident, not when before she had deftly missed, when the journey of that action brings her warm skin in brief, close contact to his leg. Brief, close - leisured, settling - the upper expanse of her lower arm lightly supported by his knee. Business is settled, and new moon is approaching. And Josephina, if anything, is like a cat - with all as her toys.
Flipped open again, the scattered remnants inside reveals in makeup and papers and little black books - token feminity amongst a gathering of masculine belongings, though perhaps the gnawer would not recognise it. Like a sweeping tide, it was changing and hers. Amongst them, a silver cardholder is taken, coaxed open with the run of her thumb, and a card taken out. With a clatter the metals falls and hides, and the card is handed back to him. Then the contact is broken.
"Here," wide, luminous smile, the flash of teeth only with the pleasure of her voice, where English notes begin to diminish. "This is my card. All the relevant contact details - that is primarily my cell phone - is on it. Let me know what you arrange."
(james)
before she deftly missed - however this contact is scathingly deliberate
upper expanse of her lower arm supported on his knee
silkenly smooth creamy flesh against the tattered and worn camoflage fatigues
(which, then, is the abrasor...)
and it's something that attracts the attention of deep umber gaze
focus dropping in curiosity's inspection of her touch and excavation
(..... oh hello there.... friendly little thing, arencha.....)
the contrast of slender appendage above iron-muscled thigh
the cat's languid stretch blanketing wolf's raw power
agile fingers plucking the card from where she holds it offeredby all means and purposes - he should squirm away from the touch
(..... charach)
predatorily feline advances from such a strange woman
then again - the Ahroun would have to read beyond the casual reach
assign some purpose hidden by the confined space of the car's dictationhowever, this. is. James.
(still a man benath wolf's clothing)
who'd have to be hit by a mack truck of intention
(it's been. so. long.)
finally realizing any such deviances in a last ditch effort to catch the fleeting license plate
(fleeting glimpses of what waits beyond his mourning sorrow)
perhaps thus noting the bumper sticker that would explain it all
(... if only you'd pay attention, Jamey-boy)
if, of course, he was lucky enough it came into concussion's focus
(if, of course, he was lucky enough to let go of his reservations)so the only reaction Josephina gets is that same, easy, warm - forever lopsided - grin
"Thank'." the slight nod-up an automatic gesture of acknowledgement "I'll keep ya pos'ed."
true to his word: he will
alerting her when messages are sent and meeting times arranged
but that is an action taking place in the future
now? the Gnawer unbuckles the seatbelt and destroys temperately controlled atmosphere of the luxury car
swinging passenger door towards the curb
allowing the city's white-noise sounds of night to ebb tidal against whatever music played
softly enough to lurk comfortably beneath the range of casual conversation"'n thank' f'r the ri'e."
the smile quirks slightly wider across rugged features
he genuinely enjoyed the aimless drive simply for his chance to be in such a car
by his overall appearence, such expenses are not commonplace in the Eagle's life
and while he may not seek these things in the course of his existance
(he is a Hood, these things never occur to him as necessary)
the Garou is able to appreciate the little things granted occasional pleasure
dissociating the formal business meeting from the joyride to expose it for what it, simply, waswhen tomorrow is forever a question of tonight's survival
and each day beyond this one is a gift of Gaia's loving grace
a Warrior learns, unerringly, to live each moment as if it is his last
for all he knows - it may very well bebut such philosophies receive no chance to solidify
the car's door closes in solid whmp-clck
recreating the near-silent bubble of crumple-zone protected serenity
the card's tucked into a waiting pocket, and the raggedyman walks away
navigating some detoured route back to the factory havenfor even if they must trust each other and work together for the City's (Nation's) future, he takes any means necessary to protect the sanctity of his pack's lair
Posted by james at June 13, 2004 12:00 AM