Decker Rohl

Rune

Sun 09:21PM EST
When Rune left for the airport little less than a week ago, the condo's windows were still empty, the interior bare where the glass cabinetry and furnishing had been destroyed. It was chilly as well - frigid, except when James was home to perform his rite - and she shuffled off to the airport dressed in layer upon layer of warm clothing.

On her return, things are much different. The windows are dark - night has fallen, a chill December night - but there are, at least, actual windows and not mere holes in the walls. The glass doors have been similarly replaced, along with the cabinetry and the bookshelves, the stereo system and the computer equipment, all the myraid electronics that make the damn bland place hers thank you very much. In sharp contrast to her leaving, she returned clad for SoCal weather - sleeveless shell and clattering high-heeled sandals, bare and strappy as a dream.

It was a dash to and from the idling taxi, over the familiar terrain blasted by the chill of winter weather. After two trips (two suitcases, loads of bags. In LA, Rune didn't just go shopping, she went shopping.) her teeth were chattering from the unexpected blast of cold. The condo was more clean than she expected - (had Decker been here at all this week? or had she forgotten the dates of the cleaning service?) but she didn't bother to keep it so, and left her suitcases and packages in a tangle on the floor. Air travel was stressful - all that enforced stillness - and the Ahroun could not decide whether she wanted to vegetate on the couch or go out and kill something.

Two Xanax, a note from James, and half-a-beer later, things sorted themselves out: veging on the couch was preferable to cold-blooded murder, and Counterstrike on the PS-2 was providing plenty of visceral gore.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 09:26PM EST
Sometime after Rune has returned home.

The night has long since fallen when she makes her way home, navigating the cold dark streets, heaters blasting a warm wash of heat in this below freezing weather.

Not quite soon enough, she parks in her own parking space, the engine cutting off with a twitch of her hand, pulling the keys from the ignition. The headlights fade, and she reaches over, grabbing a file folder from the passenger seat, pushing the door open, and she pauses, one foot on the ground, the other instead, folder in her hand. She quickly reviews the contents by the pale glow of the interior light, head bent, causing a spill of fire over her shoulders. Fingers tap lightly against paper, crackling against her touch, her head nodding once, twice, in time with the beat of her fingers, half in thought. Whatever thought she had is completed, and she steps the rest of the way out of her vehicle, shutting the door behind her. She begins up the walkway, pausing where the concrete parts, one way to Rune's condo, the other way to hers.

Tomorrow was Monday. The dead of the weekend would be disected. No way would she have time to do this Monday, and damned if she wanted to sit on it for three days or more, while her schedule tried to clash with one of the other packmates. A slow exhale, the kind that smokers do when they wish they could smoke right now and she turns, following the path toward Rune's apartment, her wool jacket a bare protection against the cold.

She takes the steps two at a time before reaching the door, fingers curling inward to a fist, knocking lightly on the door.

Rune

Sun 09:34PM EST
She's up at the knock, pulling the spilling blanket back around her shoulders and gathering the edges with one fist like a shawl, while balancing the beer in her other hand. Rune's not letting go of that beer.

It's not long before Rune answers the door - blanket spilling from her shoulders and around her tall figure, almost but not quite trailing against the floor. Dark eyes faintly unfocused (the aftereffects - the necessary aftereffects - of drugs and violent video death) skim over Imogen as she steps back making room for the kinfolk to enter if she wants to.

There's a small smirk of greeting on her painted mouth, a familiar expression to any who know the Glass Walker. "Hey, Dr. Slaughter," Her chin rises in greeting, and the glass bottle clinks against the wooden door as she pulls it completely open. "...c'mon in. I just got home, no clue where Decker is though."

It's not often that Imogen knocks on their door. Imogen Slaughter

Sun 09:44PM EST
It's a study of contrasts, and bright colours sliding together with paleness. Red hair spills over her shoulders in rivulets, curls and waves, barely tucked behind her ears, pale skin, luminescent and white as milk. Dark eyes, a penetrating blue, just that more odd because the kinfolk does not quite fear to look Rune in the eyes, and does not quite react to rage. Those eyes lift in faint greeting, "'Lo," shortened terms that only the british use without sounding odd. She's dressed simply, in a pair of jeans, unworn by time, and well fitted to her slim frame, and some sort of pale blue shirt beneath the imaginary warmth of her wool coat.

"James said something 'bout Rohl might be back Monday, but no guarantees," she replies, shaking her head slightly almost dismissive. She doesn't know where he is either, though she does step completely into the condo, avoiding the pile of shopping and luggage, eyes passing over it with a faint smirk, eyes flickering back to Rune, "Doesn't much matter who I pass the information to, so long as I do it, though." Her shoulders lift faintly, a vague shrug, "He'd asked me to find out 'bout the first kid, where he was buried. Finally found the file. I figured I'd pass it on," for whatever it was they wanted to do with it, though she could certainly guess.

Rune

Sun 09:55PM EST
"The fuck did he go?" dark brows rise faintly in question as the tall Glass Walker slips behind Imogen and pushes the door closed against the cold, shutting winter out of her world (thank god) for a little longer. She gestures toward the living room, three fingers unfurled from her left hand, though two remain clasped firmly around the shrouding blanket. "C'mon in, then, anyway. Fucking bitter cold outside."

Turning back to the living room, Rune helpfully kicks her viscious looking shoes out of the most obvious path through the living room. The heel of one catches on the blanket, but she shakes it free with an irritated shrug of her shoulders and then kicks it back into place. "Wanna beer?" she asks, turning to glance over her shoulder, not quite meeting Imogen's eyes. Something about the way in which Imogen met her eyes unnerved her even as it impressed, though perhaps it was just a trick of the woman's fine breeding.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 10:03PM EST
She nods slightly at the offer of a beer, "Please," as she bends down, untangling the laces of her boots, releasing her feet from their confines. Boots are shoved aside, keeping the semi-clear path through the living room, as she picks her way over the packages.

"Maybe James knows. He didn't mention it t'me," she replies neutrally, as she slides out of her jacket. Blue shirt, sleeves long enough to obscure the Fianna brand of her arm, but not quite long enough to keep the faint remnant of scar on the top of her wrists, a visible memory of a brief encounter with the zombie hand. She hopefully puts the jacket somewhere helpful. Like with other jackets. Or in a closet, if she can reach it. Otherwise, an available surface will do. She would be picking it up when she left, after all.

The file folder is equally put somewhere useful, Flat surface, coffee table. Breakfast bar.

Rune

Sun 10:14PM EST
There's a closet, somewhere - foyer, entrance area - but rarely used and, indeed, half-full of last season's clothing or last week's dry cleaning. Efficient and brutal as they can be in battle, the Garou are haphazard housekeepers at best, and this pack is worse than most.

So - some flat surface, or the closet, somewhere useful - goes Imogen's jacket and Imogen's file folder. Rune's beer goes someone equally useful, set down upon the black lacquered coffee table with an audible clink, but the enveloping blanket is just discarded to puddle somewhere in the middle of the floor. When Rune returns with Imogen's beer (Stoudt's Oktoberfest, one of the best microbreweries in the country), she steps over the blanket, but doesn't bother to pick it up.

"Eh," Rune shrugs as she returns, offering the open, hissing beer in an off-handed gesture augmented by a smooth roll of muscled shoulders, "doesn't matter. If he was in trouble, we would've heard." Or not, actually: she cannot quite imagine Decker calling them for help, though she can well imagine him getting into trouble. No doubt Imogen can as well, but Rune's not going to mention it. Some things are best left unsaid, after all. "You need that folder back, or is it a copy or something?"

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 10:23PM EST
A faint smirk, slightly mirthless as she takes the beer, tilting her head at the folder as she crosses the living room. It's easy enough to imagine the Fenrir finding trouble (not getting into it, but finding it, searching it out), and not so likely to call out for his packmates. But Rune doesn't mention it, and neither does she. She may not even think about it.

"It's the original. If I can get it back whenever you're done with it, that would be best. I doubt anyone will notice such an old file missing, but the less tracks, the better." A tilt of her chin toward the folder, taking a swallow of the beer, and speaking again, "It's mostly autopsy information. Pictures, and the like. Rohl seemed interested in finding out where the body was buried. Funeral home information's there, too, and I won't need that back," written in her own left handed scrawl, cramped together, made worse because she'd done it while on the phone, and quickly too, because someone had walked in on her while she'd been trying to gather the information under false pretenses.

Rune

Sun 10:34PM EST
"Gotcha," Rune replies, a mirroring smirk crawling across her own mouth as she grabs the folder from the counter and opens it. She ducks her head low - dark hair spilling over the pale skin of her cheek, the long line of her throat exposed by the loose wide collar of her shell - and begins flipping through the folder's contents. Nostrils flare with a slow exhaled of breath, "I can scan this in, give it back to you know. Shouldn't take too long." Her off-handed gesture encompasses the dining room just off the living room, filled with a riot of computer equipment, most of which has never really been used.

"You want, I can fix you up with a camera. Some fucking James Bond type thing. Save you the trouble of like, taking the confidential files outta the building. Only thing you'd need is some time alone with 'em."

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 10:39PM EST
Infant pictures, in situ of a tiny crib, pale features pink with almost life. Later pictures, of the autopsy. Descriptions, weight, size, typed on old paper. Much of it is medico-legal babble. A police report, pathetically short.

"That would work best," she replies, one hand tucking back fire strands of hair behind her ears, "As for a camera... perhaps. Less I change and move, the better." Bad enough she destroys evidence. That can be skewed as her being faulty. A bad pathologist. But confidential files? Ones she never worked on? She cannot explain that. She cannot even begin to try.

Rune

Sun 10:52PM EST
"I'll see what I can get," Rune remarks, offhanded and over the shoulder after she settles down in front of the computer across the the room. The table is low to the floor, and she doesn't have a desk chair, just a comfortable rug and a few pillows on the floor in front of a long flat table that should be buckling under the gathered weight of all that equipment, but isn't, of course, being made of finer (more expensive) stuff than it appears. "I fucking love gadgets. You like James Bond?"

Nimble fingers flick on the desktop and assorted peripherals, which boot up and turn on with admirable quickness. Someone kept Rune abreast of the latest technology, someone must, as she didn't seem the sort to be able to keep track of it, a consumer rather than an expert, a fan rather than an aficionado. She begins scanning the pages of the autopsy report - tiny crib, pale features almost pink with life - without really looking at them, callous in an utterly offhand manner, not even remotely sentimental about human life, or human death. "I'm gonna download a bootleg of the latest movie, burn it to DVD for you if you want a copy. Pierce Brosnan is fucking hot," half-a-smirk, and a lift of dark eyes as she glances from the pages on the screen back over her shoulder. "It's that damn accent. Like yours, Americans suckers for fucking accents."

Decker Rohl

Sun 10:59PM EST
Rune might've noticed - with some apprehension - that her baby wasn't in its usual space when she came home. Wherever it was, it's back now, rolling over the speed bumps, its usually immaculate purple gleam dulled with the dust of miles upon miles. The top's up, the sides splashed with mud. In the driver's seat, the Fenrir, stiff and dusty with miles upon miles.

The Beemer pulls into its usual spot and goes quiet. Under the hot hood, the engine ticks quietly to itself as Decker pushes the driver's side door open and gets out. Halfway through his little roadtrip, he'd finally figured out how to work all the complex buttons to adjust the seat so that it hugged his body just so. Too bad he'd saved his settings on top of Rune's instead of creating himself a setting. That little technicality was a little beyond his grasp.

Circling around back, he pulls a battered old Jansport bag out of the trunk. The leather bottom, mudstained grass-stained, gapes with holes, but it still served the purpose. The car bounces on its springs as he slams the trunk shut, shoulders the backpack, and trudges toward the condos.

Pierce Brosnan is fucking hot, Rune is saying when the door opens. Like his packmate, he looks around at the replaced glass first. Door shuts behind him and he can't hear the outside anymore. Amazing.

Then he looks at the two women glancing over pictures, grey eyes sweeping once-overs, quick over one and slower over the other. The bag slides from his shoulder into his hand and he chucks it carelessly underhand in the direction of the couch. A wordless grunt serves as a greeting as he heads to plunder the fridge, like he wasn't gone at all.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 11:05PM EST
The skew of conversation (Rune's motormouth) catches her half off guard and after a moment of silence, breathes a faint breath of laughter, as Decker walks in, looking somewhat the worse for the wear of the miles upon miles of trip. Her eyes follow the his slow gait for a moment, before glancing back at Rune, picking up the yarn of conversation again, "They are. Doesn't seem to matter what the accent is, be it m'own, or" faint shift of tone, because somebody in her life had hated the cornish curl of accent, and forced her to learn the 'proper way', "The Queen's fucking prose." When compared so sharply, it's easy to hear the difference

A faint shrug, of her shoulders, "And I'll take a copy." It was offered. She'll take it, though when she'd find time to watch it is beyond her.

Rune

Sun 11:18PM EST
"The hell were you?" Rune doesn't quite look up as Decker stomps his way inside, though she does follow his progress as reflected against her monitor, superimposed in ghostly fashion over the pages of the child's autopsy, now past the pictures, into the boring details of the life lived so briefly, lost so soon. The details there, the details she doesn't notice, the details about which she doesn't really care because Pierce Brosnan is fucking hot and because there's a new James Bond out and because her life is back in order and because she learned long, long ago that if she bothered to care, she would be paralyzed. Warriors should not be paralyzed.

"I've got a tweaked connection, better than cable. T-somethingsomethignsomething, fuck if I know." On the monitor, another window opened, the download begins moments later. "It won't take long to get the damn thing. I hate theaters - I mean, I love seeing movies in theaters, but I hate the damn people talking and chewing so fucking loud. We had a movie room back in LA - some of those awful seats torn outta a condemned theater, big-ass popcorn popper - it was great. Only a big-screen TV though, but surround sound and shit. It was sweet."

Does she ever pause for breath? Well, yes, now and then, handing tapping against the base of the keyboard to expend some nervous energy as the drugs begin to wear off (again. they always wear off.). She wants a cigarette, but with the windows fixed will not smoke inside (unless she's stoned or drunk off her ass, in which case: all rules are suspended.) At last, she gathers the last page from the scanner and replaces it in the autopsy file, which she sets aside with a certain theatrical flourish. "There. Done." there's a pause, and a self-aware smirk before she continues clarifying. "Not the DVD. The file, though the DVD shouldn't be much longer."

Decker Rohl

Sun 11:18PM EST
He looks somewhat worse. He smells a lot worse. Probably hadn't touched water since Thanksgiving. Probably didn't have anything of a Thanksgiving dinner either, from the way he dives straight for the turkey that most redblooded Americans were thoroughly sick of by now. Back to them, the counter behind him is already stacked high with plates of turkey and mashed potatos and yams and stuffing. His one hand is on the door of the fridge; the other is propped on one of the shelves as he peers through the cram.

"Cranberry sauce?" he asks Rune. Too damn stuffed in the fridge to see anything. The hand on the shelf steals behind his back to rub at the muscles of his lower back, sore from long hours of sitting in the same position. Then he reaches out, grabs a cold one, and half turns to swing it up on the counter next to the piles of food.

James

Sun 11:18PM EST
he had walked for miles
that easy ground eating stride driven by something deeper
something that burned right at the very core of the Ahroun
below the intrinsic fire that smelted beneath the survivor
below the roiling Rage that never, ever went away
below, even, the strange uneasiness that came from a social animal suddenly being alone for a several days
nestled far beneath any comfortable acknowledgement
there was sadness
there was pain
there was this undeniable and unsolvable frustration which had coiled tighter and tighter since last night at the morgue with Imogen
and it finally reached the snapping point tonight

that look
that mindless devotion
that pang of deepest regret
his teeth still grind

and the tawdry motherfucker owes him a trinket of a favor
how delightful

there's a half note of attention at the dusty Z3 back into its spot
Decker must be back
if he survives Rune finding out the condition of her car
broken knuckles throb as they're shoved deeper into pockets
tank boots clumping up the concrete steps

finally plucking one hand out of the pocket its been shoved into for the past four miles and grabbing handle to open the door

Rune

Sun 11:28PM EST
"It's in there somewhere," Rune shrugs, shifting from her comfortable curl on the floor to her knees, leaning up to grab a disc and shove it into the DVD RW-drive as the download finishes. Long arms, pale and bare, shift and whisper against the flimsy material of her summery shell and leather molded to the long muscled lines of her bent legs creaks with the change of position. "The hell am I? Your fucking mother? Try the cabinet, though. Should be some canned if you can't find the fresh stuff."

The door opens in the foyer, and Rune glances sharply toward the entrance to the living room then, covering the suddenness of the gesture by lifting a hand to her hair and scraping long fingers through the dark locks.

Uh, yeah. Smooooth, that, Rune. Very, very smooth.

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 11:29PM EST
Rune's explanation goes on, perhaps providing Imogen with more conversation, or at least more spoken words than she's had all weekend. Half a dozen people or more seen over the weekend, but likely, Rune has said more words than all of them combined. She smirks faintly, taking the papers and quickly tapping them into the file folder, reordering and reorganizing the pitifully small record of a pitifully short life. It would be returned to its files that are almost daunting in it's size. It could have taken her weeks. Years. To find this one folder. Lucky breaks are all she's got.

Eyes swing toward Decker as he speaks, and then toward the door (no where near as sudden as the Glass Walker) as it opens, as she drains half of her can of beer. For a place that had nearly been empty for a week, it sure was a quandry of activity now.

"I'll let y'know if I find anything more. Though I doubt there'd be anything but this."

Decker Rohl

Sun 11:31PM EST
He finds the cranberry sauce on his own (behind the expired milk) and shuts the fridge door with a nudge of his foot. Turning, he paws four or five drawers open, find the can opener, and slaps them all shut again. Metal grinds on metal as the can of cranberry sauce comes open.

A flick of his stormladen eyes up at Rune. "Ain't none o' yer business," he drawls, lazy with his unending confidence, and exchanges can opener for beer. Somewhere between his attention's come to rest on Imogen. There it stays for a while, quietly matching memory to reality, and one might imagine there's some appreciation there. Woman isn't hard on the eyes, after all - or maybe it's the fact that he hadn't seen her for the last week. A pull and a swallow later, he turns and shoves his plate into the microwave. Two minutes seemed about right.

As the oven starts whirring, the Modi dumps the canful of jellified cranberry sauce into a bowl and starts mashing it up, listening with half an ear to the conversation.

Hell we talkin' 'bout? Must be odd for Rune to feel him in her mind again after a week's absence.

James

Sun 11:35PM EST
the rebar is dumped in clanging protest onto the tile
the trenchcoat soon to follow
bloodsplatter all over the rags that wrap his hands
there's a bit of a scowl at the mess
but at least skin has healed
.... though I doubt there'd be anything but this.
a blink
and that is when the Gnawer finally looks up

Imogen
Decker
Rune

he can't help the brow lift
the little grin

"Wow. Put windows into a place and they all come out of the woodwork."

he'd ask about how their trips were
but obviously they're arleady involved in some sort of conversation
so he just makes himself at home on the couch
(of course, this is home, isn't it)

Decker Rohl

Sun 11:40PM EST
A glance up at the newest arrival. Aha, and the three (musketeers) Ahroun are back together again. An impersonal flicker of his eyes later, Decker finishes mashing up cranberry sauce right as the microwave beeps. Earsplittingly.

"Been gittin' in trouble?" 'Trouble' is Decker's catchall term for various forms of violence, righteous and otherwise. The scent of turkeyday food fills the kitchen, drifts over the breakfast bar, dissipates into the condo as Decker serves up his plate. Almost cancels out the Modi's scent of unwashed clothes and unwashed skin. Sweat, dirt. Blood, somewhere there, always. Circling around out of the kitchen, he levers himself up on the stools in front of the breakfast bar. Hunkers down, animalistic. Digs in.

Mouth full, over one sinewed shoulder, "Don't we got no biscuits 'r nothin', Rune?"

Rune

Sun 11:46PM EST
It's strange to feel him in her mind again, after a long week, as strange as it to see glass in the windows, as strange as it is to feel the blast of winter after half-a-week beneath the warm SoCal sun, as strange as it is to see James (the duck of her head, the sweep of inky hair across her cheek, the faint trace of a genuine grin) walking through the front door amidst the chaos of her tumbled purchases.

Imogen brought the autopsy report on the first one. Impersonal, divorcing the human from the body, the soul from the death. It's just another statistic, though an interesting one, to Rune.

"Yeah, I wouldn't think there'd be anything more," Rune comments with a shrug. "...especially since it wasn't that important when it happened. Not even that important now." Her shrug is not so much resigned as non-commital. That's the way the world works, after all. She continues, as easily confident as Decker, but the quality is tangibly different, flavored by a self-deprecating smirk smoothed over her red mouth. "But I've gotta say thanks. Appreciate what you do and everything. You ever need anything in return, you let me know."

Rune grabs the DVD from the burner and flips it into a red plastic case, then rises and crosses the dining room, back toward the living room and kitchen, offering Imogen the DVD as her eyes veer toward Decker, deliberately avoiding looking at James for too long. Decker can watch Imogen all he wants, and in their presence too. Rune doesn't have the same luxury. "The hell did I just tell you? I'm not your fucking mother, Decker. I think there are some fucking rolls around somewhere, though. You want some biscuits, make some. There's bound to be a can or three in the fucking fridge, and last I heard you weren't fucking paralyzed."

Imogen Slaughter

Sun 11:57PM EST
Decker had taken a moment, a fraction of a second to look her over; certainly nothing hard on the eyes, pale skin, violent red hair. Or maybe he'd just not seen her in a week. Half a moment after he'd looked away, turning to deal with his food, demanding of Rune exactly where he might find this, and that, she'd turned her gaze in his direction, a momentary regard, of travel stained form, as the smells of warm thanksgiving reheated fill the kitchen, almost obscuring the smell of sweat and blood and other such things. And then back, following the conversation with Rune.

A shrug of her shoulders, "It's no problem," answered automatically, as she leans forward plucking the DVD from the manicured Glass Walkers fingers, twitching the case up in a quick gesture. "Thanks."

A faint smirk of vague amusement, momentary, at James's comment.

James

Sun 11:58PM EST
"Something like that."

half slurred in response to the question
oh, autopsy report?
he'll just settle down into a slouch on the plush leather
dark lashes lowered to look at the hands hovering somewhere above his belly
the wraps pulled off in slow cycle
blood flaking and crushed cartiledge crackling
he's not even gonna take a part in this one
he had more than enough of it last night
he's reached his weekend quota of utter shite
thank you very much
wait until Monday

other than those first partially smiled glances?
doesn't look at the sleek Walker
doesn't look at famished Fenrir
doesn't look at the bright Fianna kin

nope... no sir... just at his hands
and the methodical unwrap to survey the damage

"Check above the fridge. I didn't eat all of them."

he could have
not like there was anyone else here to share it with

Decker Rohl

Mon 12:16AM EST
Who the fuck would put biscuits above a fridge? Oh, that's right. A bachelor Bone Gnawer left to himself. Decker vaults off the stool and peers over the top of the tall sleek fridge, snagging the biscuits and popping them into the microwave. Left behind, the heaping plate is halfway plowed through.

Oh, comes the reply to Rune's reply. He'll look them over himself, later.

Thirty seconds later, steaming-hot biscuits come out of the microwave. Leaning over the sink to pop them on his plate, fingertips steam-scalded. Ten seconds later he's eating again. One wonders if he even tastes the food. A moment after that he's done eating, fork scraping plate, and arches over the breakfast bar to dump the plate and fork both into the sink. Then he grabs his backpack up and, on his way to the spare room, stops his familiar thuggish gait by Rune's computer station to glance down at the pictures first, then Imogen. Hadn't seen her for a week, and he's said precisely nothing to her. Doesn't say anything, either.

Just reaches out; touches her hair.
Slides his fingers through her hair.

Decker doesn't smile. Decker never smiles. But one edge of his mouth hooks up, and poets would say something about drinking her in through his eyes, blah and blah; for Decker, it's a bit simpler.

Grey on blue, he just ...looks at her for a while, for a moment electric with awareness of their nearness.

Then the Modi's attention slides past her to Rune, and it's the usual laconic grey carelessness again. He shifts the bag on his shoulder. With some sort of instinctual deference to those of higher station, he reports his doings to Rune, "Gonna go unpack," and turns down the hall to do just that.