ice cream.

[Marrick Fisher] (aaaand checking)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Marrick Fisher] Inhale.

One of the beautiful things about Grant Park was that, if she wanted to, she could run and no one cared. If she wanted to, she could run and people, instinctively, avoided her like the plague. They looked over their shoulders, they tensed, and they wondered, briefly, what the Hell someone like her was running from. It didn't register that, at times, one ran for the sake of doing so.

She never understood the concept of running laps as punishment.

Exhale.

Marrick Fisher ran because it was cathartic. Because she needed some way to clear her head, and the sound of footsteps hitting the ground was rhythmic, the sound of breathing was predictable, and she knew how fast her heart would beat while she was doing this. Marrick knew how far she could push herself, and how far she would push herself.

All that thought and pomp and circumstance, however, didn't really matter. Because, the only thing that seemed to register in her features was that she needed to focus.

Inhale.

It was mostly cloudy. The sun barely came out from behind the clouds, and only then for a brief moment. There was a good, reasonable breeze blowing from the southwest, and it was humid as fuck. Felt closer to ninety instead of the eighty-one degrees that it was. She felt like she could chew on the air out here.

It was hot, the way July should be.

Attire was comfortable. Red shorts, white tank top, tennis shoes. This is where we start our scene, with a blonde Fury running, and the air being too damned hot.

[Alexander Vaughn] Overcast again. Muggy and grey and hot. Alexander is in workout clothes, a sleeveless muscle tee and loose board shorts, but he's not running, nor performing any form of physical exercise. He's lounging on a bench, licking an ice cream cone. A triple-scoop. The topmost scoop is mint chocolate chip. The middle is butter pecan. The bottommost is strawberry cheesecake.

His Miami tan has been nicely maintained by the Chicago summer. He's nut-brown, and his red shirt, white-trimmed-in-black shorts set off his complexion. They also serve to showcase his body, which is, of course, the point.

No one ever accused Alexander of being humble.

Marrick is coming down the path. He can see her a long way off because she's pretty, and blonde, and longlegged, and pretty longlegged blondes always attract his attention. He can also see her because she's a goddamn hurricane in olive skin, and humans are skittering out of her way like marbles.

When she's between him and the bright western sky, bright where the sun would be if it weren't for the clouds, he squints up at her. His free arm is up along the back of the bench; his ankle crossed over his knee. Everything about his posture takes up room, makes a statement, is a boast. "Was I imagining it, or did I see you on the billing for next Saturday's match?"

[Marrick Fisher] No one had ever accused him of being humble, and why should he be? He was fit, he looked good, and the man knew it. Face it, that doesn't happen often. Usually, men who were bestowed with Alexander Vaughn's arrogance confidence were forty-something year old balding bankers and tax attorneys. The thought was not explored, because Marrick Fisher did not want to think of bankers or tax attorneys right now.

People moved when she came by, found an excuse to get the Hell out of her way and today? She didn't seem to mind. Whatever control she had- the kind that she gripped so tightly that it might just suffocate- was released slightly. She had an outlet, she had a purpose, and she had something that would, morethan likely, take off some of that edge. Marrick wasn't sure if she wanted it to go away, though, and her thoughts wandered.

Exhale.

She stopped, caught a look at Alex, and slowed to an eventual stop. She reached up to tighten her ponytail, something idle. She was weating, which was understandable.

"Nah," she told him. A slight grin crossed her face, "I'm actually on for next Saturday. Assuming that goes well? Who knows, y'all might lose that prime time slot... I'm feelin' pretty good 'bout this."

A pause.

"Gonna watch?"

[Alexander Vaughn] Actually, Marrick had it right the first time. What Alex has is arrogance. In spades. Confidence; that was something else, quieter, deeper, and truer.

"Maybe. You gonna win?" And Alex smirks.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] The skies were gray, the air was thick and hot as angel cake right out of the oven, and for the most part Chicago was tired of it. If it was going to be hot, then the weather could at least have the courtesy of giving them a little sun so it wasn't so damn gloomy. Then they could get a tan while they're sweating instead of just feeling like they were sitting in an indoor sauna.

Gabbie wasn't complaining, though. She'd been down to Georgia recently, it was far worse there. Humid, ten degrees hotter, and not just overcast but with sudden fierce storms that would manifest with no warning, drench her and the orchestra that she was traveling with, then disappear as soon as they find cover, leaving them wet and grumpy about it. Compared to that, Chicago's clouds and eighty degree weather were bliss.

What her business in the park was is difficult to tell. What we do know, however, is that she's walking idly along the paths, keeping herself moving as though someone was trying to track her, would find her if she sat down long enough. She wasn't paying a whole lot of mind to where she was going or who was around her, though. She took whatever paths her feet chose, and had already walked the whole of the park at least twice. She was busy reading from a stack of pages printed from a computer.

As Marrick and most other females had done, Gabbie wore her hair up and off the back of her neck to regulate her temperature a little better. She didn't go with a simple ponytail, though, had used some pretty clip or another and let the last few inches of her hair feather out overtop of it. She wore a simple dress, with material that pulled snug across her chest, but was left to fall loosely from under her bust to the middle of her thighs. It was strapless, dark blue, and had yellow and pink patterns in swirls, seashells, and other oceanic symbols all over it.

Her white flip-flops slapped merrily against her feet with each step, and she seemed cheery enough. That air of cheer conflicted with the fact that she moved like she was avoiding someone. She was tough to figure out today.

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich was walking down one of the paths dressed in casual attire for the warm, muggy afternoon. He had on red t-shirt, no logo, that was untucked from his digi camo cargo shorts that stopped just above his knees. On his feet were white with a bit of blue piping Nike Cross Trainers, and ankle length white socks.

He got out of the way of a few roller bladers that whizzed past him, and then moved on as a little wiener dog barked and yipped at him, it's owner saying "Stop that. What's wrong with you?"

*The young woman, mid-twenties with a fair complection, and nice face looked up and smiled weakly more afraid then warm at Dietrich, she quickly pulled her dog away, but Dietrich only gave the pair a casual glace before he headed on down the path, just out for a casual stroll looking at the scenery.*

[Marrick Fisher] You gonna win?
"Probably," she snorted, "you're gonna have t'watch and find out."

She sat down. Admittedly, it was an invasion of personal space. Admittedly, when Marrick invaded someone's personal space, they could very well be yards apart and it would still be uncomfortable. The Fury sat on the bench and put about a foot of space between herself and the Glass Walker.

"Maybe you ain't the only who likes showing off."

Half a grin.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander snorts, amused. He looks past Marrick, and then he snorts again, louder, more amused. "Oh look, it's my roommate. HEY GABBIE."

And then back to Marrick, "So you pick a fight name yet? I vote for Callisto. Marrick 'Callisto' ... what's your last name again?" Did she ever tell him?

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Papers practically flew out of her hands when her name was bellowed out across the park. She jumped like a kid caught doing something they really weren't supposed to be doing, like sneaking out of the house at two in the morning by wedging themselves through the tiny window in the bathroom above the toilet, or having their parents drive by to spot them tossing eggs at a schoolyard rival's house in the middle of the night. Ever notice how all the bad things kids do take place at night?

Clear blue eyes that were brought out so much by the tone of the dress that they were almost startling shot up, around, then landed on the bench up the path from her, in the direction she had been walking. Alex and.... ah, what was her name.... Mary? No... Mar... Marrilyn... Marrick! There we go. The one who had looked at her guiltily when she revealed her name in the common room several weeks ago, because she had--....

Oh yeah.

Her expression went flat, and she stooped down to pick up some of the papers that she did drop, lifting her free hand in an absent wave of acknowledgment as she did so.

[Dietrich Burke] *The name "GABBIE" caught his attention. His gaze shifted to Alex, and then followed his line of sight to Gabriella, then back to Alex and Marrick. He half smiled when he saw her, his prospective new pack member. He held up a hand and called out.*

"Marrick!" *To get her attention. He put his hand down, and then started off at a trot toward Marrick and Alex.*

[Marrick Fisher] She hadn't told him. In fact, she'd had her shirt off by the time it dawned on her that hey, I might want to know this guy's name. She shrugged.

"Fisher," she tells him. "An' I think Callisto might work... though the insinuation is that I'm a crazy-assed blonde chick with a chip on her shoulder."

A beat.

Another.

"Yeah, yeah I think that might work."

Oh, hey, Gabbie! A nod, a wave, and something polite that went through the motions. When someone was there, she waved, she squinted, and she looked at Gabbie. She was a pretty girl, she was slender and curved and regal and so much a lady that... Well, Marrick didn't quite know what to do. And then? Someone yelling her name.

Attention darted to the other side of the park, and quickly. Hand up, and voice clear. She cocked her head to the side, and then grinned. The fury gave half a wave.

"Dietrich, hey!"

When she was happy, she was happy, when she was sad, she was sad. When she was angry, she was radiant. She didn't seem displeased, though.

[Liadan Whelan] Líadan Whelan walks down the path slowly, like a tourist taking in the sights. She's headed north through the park, aiming for the Cloud Gate where she'll veer to the west and walk the three or four blocks home.

It's been two days, it's supposed to be weird for her to think of her studio as home. But it's not. The place she used to escape from the world, to hide from her roommate when she was feeling particularly inferior, where she crashed when she stayed out too late working, had always been more home to her than 520 Kingsbury.

She moves slowly to hide the stiffness of her limbs. The beginner courses at Tribull had done little to prepare her for the dedicated work out that was kickboxing. It was a good ache that kept her from moving briskly, kept her from stretching those long legs and covering the blocks with a ground eating stride. She's wearing her street clothes, beige fitted tee designed like a camp shirt, but no flesh and blood human has ever been to Camp Taurajo. Short denim shorts expose her pale legs, and decidedly unfeminine brown sandals expose lavender painted toes. Her long red hair is pulled back in a ponytail high on the back of her head. She's still sweaty from her work out, or maybe it's the humidity that makes the perspiration gather at her hairline.

Up ahead she sees Marrick and she smiles, almost calls out.

She's sees the man on the bench with the ice cream and a flurry of epithets go sailing through her head.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Yeah well. If you fight Zena Ilyanova," one of Gabbie's loose papers comes flapping by and Alexander, helpful man that he is, catches it for her, "I'm so there."

Catches it, that is, with his foot. Stomps it right down, actually, leaving a big dirty footprint on it. Then he picks it up, turns it over, and shamelessly begins to read it.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie had actually lurched forward after the paper that the breeze caught, and got pebbles in her knees for it. She'd reached, missed, and several other papers skittered on the ground and threatened to take the same route. Grumbling to herself, she gathered these up in a messy stack, patted them straight on the pavement, and stood up to hold them against her chest securely with both arms crossed over top of them, as though she were holding a beloved book instead.

The page that Alexander catches reads, under the footprint, a list of condos and small houses. The top of the page reads that it's page five of a seventeen page selection, and shows that it came from a real estate website. The agent that ran it was smiling with a bad comb over at the edge of the page somewhere. The criteria listed as two bedrooms, one bath, and $140,000 or less. He gets two apartments, a townhouse, and a brick cottage, all rather run-down looking.

By the time he gets a chance to take most of this in, Gabbie has already marched herself over to the bench and is holding a hand out expectantly for him to return it. "If you don't mind..." she begins.

And, as memory to be polite hits her, she nods to Marrick. "Marrick, nice to see you again." The smile was a little strained, but not because of who she was smiling at. Probably because Alex was snooping.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Buying a house, are you?" Actually, Alex doesn't mind at all. He hangs on to the printout, poring over it. "I like the townhouse; it's cute. Aww," as though it just struck him, "does this mean you're tired of being my roommate? I'm wounded." He claps a hand over his solid chest. "Right here in my poor widdle heart."

[Dietrich Burke] *Marcus comes up to Marrick, and extends his right hand for her to shake, a warm smile to a new friend, a warrior, comrade in arms.*

"Hey Marrick. Out for a little PT huh? It's a good day for it." *He says in a friendly casual nature, relaxed tone even furious energy radiates from him spreading out to those around him.*

"So how's it going? Having a good day?" *He says placing his hands on his hips, his back straight, shoulders back, feet shoulder width apart looking Marrick in the eyes.*

[Dietrich Burke] (Crap Marcus = Dietrich)

[Dietrich Burke] (Forgot who I playing there for a moment. :P I blame Lee.)

[Liadan Whelan] [Lee din't do nuffin'! =P]

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Her eyes move from Alex and Marrick to the figure that was also approaching the bench-- tall, dark, buzzed hair and camouflage shorts. A regal cut to his nose and cheekbones, and a wave of Rage that crashed against but didn't quite top Marrick's. Something stern flashed on Gabbie's face, you could almost see the doors slamming closed and locking in her mind, but he was doing his best to ignore her, paying mind to the blond with the freckles and the monumental Rage, so she looked back to Alex, keeping her hand out for the page.

"You are utterly full of garbage, Vaughn," is all that she gives as a response.

I neither confirm nor deny that statement.

[Liadan Whelan] “You mean someone got tired of looking at your ugly mug, Mario? Surprise surprise.”

Lee stops beside Marrick. Dark eyes glance over Alex and Gabbie before going to the Black Fury.

Who apparently has other people vying for her attention. Lee rocks back on her heels to check out the tall man with the buzz cut on Marrick's other side. A cursory glance, and then to Marrick, “Hey. Thanks for the casserole.”

[Marrick Fisher] "Where ya movin' to?" she asked Gabbie. Something immediate, straight and to the point, brows raised, head cocked to the side, and with that? She started to stand. Marrick's attention shifted from one Fang to the other, slightly more intense one. She took Dietrich's hand and gave it a shake. The Fury stood. She was a rather formittable presence, but that was neither here nor there.

"Best day I can have," she replied, "figured I should run a little, though. Gonna go to Oz park t'night and get a feel for it though, so this is just a warm up."

And then? In order, she responded, Liadan thanked her for the casserole and the Fury shrugged some. She nodded, "Yeah, sure, no problem," she tells her, "I'm kinda glad t'like it. S'the first thing I've cooked since I got here, an' I woulda felt bad if, y'know, you were allergic to tater tots or some shit like that."

[Alexander Vaughn] "Whatever." Alex slaps the page back into Gabbie's hand, looking past her to Liadan, at whom he makes a face. "Christ, if I'd known what a harpy you'd turn out to be, I would've rethought my strategy that night. What the hell is your problem, Lee? Someone light the fuse on your tampon?"

[Liadan Whelan] Lee chuckles. “An Irish woman allergic to potatoes. That would be a travesty,” she says with a grin. For the moment she's relaxed, because it's Marrick. And then she sees Gabbie.

“Wait, you're his roommate? And you're moving out?” Lee affects a look of genuine surprise. “But I thought you two were the best of buds.”

And then Alex is using his words. She turns and looks down at him, sitting there on the bench with his ice cream cone melting. And she considers. “Why? I regret nothing I did before I learned what an asshole you really are. That night was fucking awesome and you know it. It's not my fault my one-night stand keeps showing up.”

[Sinclair] Depending on where you're from, today is either disgustingly hot and wet or positively balmy. It's in the mid-nineties today in Kansas. It's over a hundred and ten in Phoenix. The weather in Los Angeles is actually not that far off from Chicago today, at least in terms of recorded temperature and humidity. There are those who would be out today sweating bullets, complaining of the brutal heat, talking about how eighty degrees is going to kill them.

Sinclair just walks down a path in a pair of beaten-up navy blue Nikes with dingy white swooshes up the sides. She's wearing a pair of khaki shorts that sit precariously low on her hips, a green string tied around one unused belt loop. Her gray A-shirt is the ribbed sort that come three to a pack. Her ink and metal are bared. Her hair is up in a high but short ponytail.

When she sees the gathering up ahead, she makes no attempt to hide the fact that her direction alters immediately to take her towards them. It's not like she's good at hiding things anyway. She's not overly familiar with anyone in the group, hasn't even met the redhead, but no matter. She slings a friendly arm around Marrick's waist when she shows up, and is about to open her mouth when Alex does --

-- to ask the redhead (Lee) if her tampon is aflame.

Sinclair, baby-blue eyes turned smoky and vicious with heavy eye makeup, blinks. At Lee's rebuttal she looks from Glass Walker Kin to... what smells like a Fianna. And then back to Alex. She wants to wait to see what he'll say. But she can't help herself: she starts snickering, but it's utterly unclear who she's laughing at.

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich nodded to Marrick, his arms crossed in front of his chest, fists underneath his arm pits. He looks at Lee when Marrick addresses her, but then his focus is back on Marrick.* "A little night patrol huh? Well..." *He stops in mid-sentence checking some of the exchange between Alex and Lee. He shakes his head a bit and then back to Marrick.*

"Anyway if you don't care to have some back up I got nothin' goin on this evening. Was just gonna do a little sneak and peek on the other side of things. So I'm good to go on the Oz front if you want the assistance."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie snatched the paper that she'd been handed and put it on the top of her stack. She looked down at it, frowned at the footprint left in dust on it, then shook her head at Alex and rubbed the page as clean as she could get it again. The man shifted his focus to the girl with the red hair and glasses that she recognized singularly as the woman that had been with Hatchet when Alex got his lights punched out. She nearly (but not really) regretted having ever stood up for him that night.

Two questions were shot at her, assumptions were made, and Gabbie found herself scowling. People showed up out of nowhere-- Dietrich, this red-haired woman, and then the crazy female with the blond hair that had circled her in the club and pestered her at the bonfire. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, looked distinctly uncomfortable, and stared down at her papers as she tried to shuffle them back into order-- first page on top, seventeenth on the bottom.

To Marrick: "Nowhere..."
To Liadan: "Yes, I'm his roommate. And why would you think we were 'buds'?"

Her lower lip was pulled in between her teeth and she chewed at it nervously. For a girl that was supposed to be well versed in meeting new people and surviving a night in a crowd, she didn't manage very well in a cluster of people affiliated with the Nation.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Oh no. Believe me, I don't regret that night. You were the fuck of a century, or at least a month. I just regret that you've since sprouted claws and horns. Oh, and threw your laptop at me. Oh, and started following me around bitching at me. For no good reason! At least with Gabbie, I know why she's being a little snit. She's tired of her prissy little room smelling like sex all the time. What's your excuse? Did I bruise another one of your models or something? What'd I do to earn your unending bitchery?"

Alex pauses to take a breath.

[Alexander Vaughn] (just a warning guys -- i gotta leave this scene in ~30-40 min cuz i'm about to get busy again!)

[Marrick Fisher] Sinclair sling's an arm around' Marrck's waist, who glances over at her side and bumps the Glass Walker with her hip. Not rough, not anything except... surprisingly playful. Brow raised, grin on her face, almost daring Oh yeah, that's right, I so went there. She snickers, Marrick doesn't move her, and for her part she continues on with conversations.

Attention went to Dietrich, and then? "I'll show ya around tonight. There's a few interestin' places out there that y'might like. It'll be worth it t'go together t'night. Want ya t'get real familiar with it, y'know? Know yer resources an' that shit."

[Sinclair] Gabbie's discomfort catches Sinclair's attention instantly. It isn't the goddamn breeding or the lines of her face. She recognizes her, of course. She knows how the hell this girl is now, at least in terms of the identity you could write down in a genealogical record or scrawl on a bathroom wall. She remembers her from the club, how easily she'd been made uneasy, how quickly she'd scurried off when Joey and Sin came up to Dietrich... who is right there. Sinclair could be making introductions, maybe should be learning as much as she can about the people here, but when Gabriella starts scowling and chewing her cheek and looking down at her papers, Sinclair's attention zeroes in on her.

Alex and Liadan's quarrel is not forgotten, but she slides her arm away from Marrick and moves over to Gabriella, propping her forearm on the younger girl's shoulder. "Why the long face, Miss Muffet?" she drawls.

[Liadan Whelan] She looks at Gabbie and, her dislike directed at someone else for the time being, turns back to Alex like they're on pleasant speaking terms.

“You remember that day my friend Taggart destroyed your face? She was your number one fan.”

And, oh, she's focused back on Alex. Her head tips to the side. Color creeps into her face and her nostrils flare. “Okay, first of all, you beat up my cousin, so sue me for being a little protective. And second, if you didn't want me showing up at your fucking gym, don't you think maybe you shouldn't have told me to go there? And I bitch at you because every time I see you, just looking at you pisses me the hell off. Is that reason enough for you, shitbag?”

Her face is definitely reddening now.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Liadan half-scowls at Gabbie and reminds Alex of the fact that Gabbie had been the one so intent on helping him, trying to keep his face from being smashed in further, and Gabbie... well, doesn't respond much to that. It's not like it's a secret, or anything she should be ashamed of. What is there to be ashamed of when you're trying to keep a Garou from literally punching the life out of a perfect stranger in the middle of an establishment that made up the underbelly of their home?

And then there was Sinclair.
And physical contact.

The Fang Kin had gotten pages one through five organized and was tugging page six out of the stack when she felt an arm touch her bare, freckle-dusted shoulder, and she glanced over to the Galliard standing beside her, and an expression of discomfort and surprise was muffled and covered up with one in which she raised her eyebrow and studied the woman instead.

"No long face. Just... didn't really expect to find so many of us here."

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich gives a glance to Sinclair for a brief moment a look of utter disgust crosses his face. He keeps his eyes on the back of her head, and then leans to his right and spits in the grass as if he's getting a foul taste out of his mouth.

*He focus then turns to the exchange between Alex, and Lee more curious now but once lee starts her tirade he's back looking Marrick.*

This time his expression is stoic, voice a little more formal since talk has turned to business.* "Roger that. When we break from here I'll run by my quarters, change over and then meet up with you back at the house. Good to go?"

[Sinclair] The Galliard currently making Gabriella her perch gives off a dry, searing heat. Her earrings and the metal through the skin in her arm glint in the fading sunlight of the late summer day. She smirks at Gabriella's answer. "You know, you look pretty fuckin' upset about that for a girl who lives in a building just chock full of 'us'."

[Alexander Vaughn] Alex stares at Liadan for a second, one eyebrow cocking up. A beat later it goes back down. And he gives Liadan a big, shiteating smile.

Then:

"Your friend Taggart. The one that ditched you to die, upsetting you so much that you had to come and confide in me, of all people ... that friend Taggart?" There's something rather methodical about this. "And, right. Your cousin Aidan. The one who snuck in out of nowhere to join a fight that had nothing to do with him. That cousin Aidan?

"By the way, you should know the little shit tried to gang up on me again. I kicked his fucking face in. It was awesome. Ask Marrick. Or Gabbie. I totally don't regret that either.

"Oh, and the gym thing. Lee, I don't give a flying fuck if you want to join my gym. I just want you to stop showing up wherever I am wearing that sour look on your face. And no, those weren't reasons enough for me. Try again. Babydoll."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie didn't answer immediately. She had become too busy listening to Alex and Liadan go back and forth at one another. Her eyes lifted from her stack of pages, drifted toward the two, and watched carefully. Alex went on a tangent with a smile that looked like it was full of rusty razorblades and ill intent, and it had everything to do with Taggart and Aidan. In the time it took him to say 'Your friend Taggart' and 'Babydoll', Gabbie seemed to have aged a decade and a half. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes looked tired, and her lip slipped out from between her teeth to dry in the air.

She inhaled deeply, through her nostrils, shook her head, and glanced toward the woman that was at her side, much closer than she found ideal. "I expect it then." The answer was simple and short, but didn't sound curt or rude.

She wanted to say something to Alex, to try and convince him that getting Liadan Whelan to scratch his eyes out simply wasn't the best course of action, but what good would that do? Absolutely none. He'd just redirect all of that acidic spite onto her, and that'd make her feel even worse. She kept her tongue, and instead glanced toward Dietrich, studied his scowl toward Sinclair, the way he spit, then spoke to Marrick and made a point to ignore what Gabbie assumed must be his ex-packmate.

Their business, not hers. She kept organizing pages.

[Liadan Whelan] She scoffs, and dark eyes roll. “You're the one who said it's not their job to babysit our asses.” She doesn't, however, tell him that Taggart left her again in the middle of a fight.

“And lucky for you, you don't have to worry about that little shit butting into your space anymore.”

She leans in close, resting her hand on the back of the bench so their faces are inches apart. Her voice is low, pitched for his ears only.

“And let's just say I have a little experience with douchebags who try to lock girls in bedrooms. That work for you, Asshole?”

She doesn't give him time to respond, just pushes back and stalks down the path, sore muscles be damned.

“Later, Marrick!” she calls, waving without turning.

[Marrick Fisher] Assessment: Gabbie is uncomfortable. Sinclair is comforting (sort of). LIadan is pissed off. Alex is not helping. Marrick and Dietrich talk shop.

Plan: ...

"Sounds great, see you tonight, we'lls tart as soon as you get there."

She just nodded, and was content to talk business, to let the people hash out their- Later, Marrick!. She blinked, watching Lee go and, for her part, the Fury was surprised. The Fury was confused, and she... didn't do much about it, really. There were moments where she was strong and she was fierce, and she was all sorts of things, and then?

Then there were moments where she was a teenaged girl. Who didn't quite get people.

"'scuse me a minute," she said. And then? Pursuit.

"Hey, Lee, waitaminute!"

[Dietrich Burke] *He looked over at Sinclair and Gabbie. He frowned a bit, and exhaled. Really didn't care for either one of them, and probably should've just left it alone, but Gabbie was a Silverfang kin. She was part of his tribe, and something inside of him said "Do something asshole."

*So he threw he a line, gave her a social out if she wanted it.* "Hey Gabbie. I'm glad I ran into you. I just remembered if you got a second I'd like to talk to you about that thing we were discussing the other day. In private if at all possible."

*He looked at Marrick, and said.* "Hey if you need a ride-" *Then she was taking off, and he waved.* "No Problem. Catch you later on Marrick." *He called after the departing Fury.*

[Sinclair] Leaning on Gabriella's shoulder puts Sinclair incredibly close to the Fang girl's face when she turns. She can very likely smell the lingering odor of bubble gum on Sinclair's breath. Sinclair notices Liadan leaving even if she didn't see Dietrich's disgust, but keeps her eyes pinned right on Gabriella. She sniffs her, leaning in so close that the tip of her neck almost brushes Gabbie's neck.

Pulling back, she affects a puzzled expression. "Huh. You smell like a pure-bred-as-fuck Kinfolk." She looks her up and down, drawing back enough so that her arm is no longer resting on Gabbie's shoulder. "You look like a pure-bred-as-fuck Kinfolk." She reaches her hand towards Gabbie's chest, but stops a few inches short of grabbing a handful of boob and pulls back. "I'm gonna guess you feel like a pure-bred-as-fuck Kinfolk."

She reaches back and hooks her thumbs in her butt pockets, cocking her head to the side. "Seems to me you'd expect our kind to flock around your purty little self." A beat. Then her eyes light up and she snaps her fingers. "Oh, shit, I just thought of a great fucking idea. If you don't want to be standing here with a bunch of 'us', you could try this thing -- well, I don't know if it's your style, chewing on your lips and shuffling your Very Important Papers seems to be working okay for you -- but you could walk away."

Glancing at Lee and Alex, she turns back to Gabbie. "They don't seem to --"

Dietrich speaks to Gabbie, and Sinclair's mouth silences for a moment. When he's done, she gives Gabriella a grin with teeth too white, too sharp, too blatantly bared. "Aww, you should go with him. To talk. About the thing." Her eyebrows waggle.

[Alexander Vaughn] This has devolved into a quick, vicious thing.

You're the one who said it's not their job to babysit our asses.
"I wasn't the one ass-hurt over it when they didn't. I'm not the one pretending everything's a-okay again."
You don't have to worry about that little shit --
"Excellent." His teeth flash on the first fricative. "Did he finally slash his fucking wrists?"
--anymore. Let's just say I have a little experience...

To this, Alex has nothing to say, but the way his eyebrows instantly rocket up tells Liadan that a) Alexander is not a fucking retard, and b) Liadan has likely revealed more than will be good for her down the line. After all, what'd confiding in him that she was ass-hurt because Hatchet abandoned her during a fight buy her? A brutal explanation and, weeks later, her own words used against her.

She stalks off. He should probably run after her. Demand an explanation. Coax one out of her. Learn something about what makes Liadan Whelan tick. Except... this is Alexander Vaughn. And he just watches her go. Lets out a huff of a laugh. Turns back and surveys the remainder.

"Sinclair," this laugh is different, a short, harsh bark, "why are you such a bitch?"

There's no indication he's leaping to Gabbie's defense.

[Mickey] (locations?)

[Dietrich Burke] (Standing near Gabbie, Alex, and Sinclair along a path but Dietrich is probably about to leave.)

[Sinclair] "I could ask you the same, Negative Seven," she retorts instantly, whipping her head around with a droll look about her mouth and a fierce, sharp look in her eyes that makes it impossible for her bored expression to fool anyone. The moon is waning. She looks strangely pale even under the sunlight, even with her tan. Her eyes are slightly sunken underneath that heavy eye makeup. She has a hungry, desperate look to her face even when she's... joking around.

She seems like she's joking around.

"But then I thought that might be mean, you know, since I'm the one who keeps making you my bitch."

[Liadan Whelan] Lee doesn't stop or slow down when Marrick calls out to her. She has a feeling the girl is perfectly capable of catching up to her.

She doesn't care if Alex somehow thinks he's gained some ammunition to use against her in the future. She just keeps walking.

“What?” she asks, a little too sharply. She's scowling. Run-ins with Alex always ruined her day.

Sometimes, for days.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie's nose wrinkled in an expression that floated between extremely uncomfortable and disgusted to simple distaste and irritation. Sinclair leaned in and put her face right in Gabbie's neck. Gabbie tipped her head to the side, away, and it could be perceived almost as her baring her neck more, invitingly to the Galliard. Truth be told, though, she was just trying to keep her face away from hers, like how you stretch your head away from an enthused puppy that was trying to lick every inch of your face.

Then the look over, and the almost-a-grope. That had the Silver Fang kinfolk taking a step back and scowling heavily, lips parted, about to tell the woman off. But then, amidst the rude delivery, a point was made. Why was she sticking around? What social obligation did she have to linger? She didn't owe anyone here anything, except maybe Dietrich for not being a complete prick and pushing their arrangement forward. She lived with Alex, but that wasn't much. He'd insult her, whether he meant to or not (but he certainly didn't care one way or the other), have sex in their room and not even be considerate enough to open a window and turn on a fan. They've played video games together once or twice, but they haven't had anything remotely close to a heart to heart or friendly conversation, so she owed him nothing.

Liadan was walking off, Marrick was following her, and Sinclair was making her very, very uncomfortable, almost to the point of defensive anger. Why the hell did she stay?

Dietrich spoke up, and she looked at him, blinked, then looked back to Sinclair and frowned, hard. When she spoke next, there was a knife's edge to her voice. "Can you just not be antagonistic? Please? I understand that the urge to compete with Alexander for the Asshole of the Year award is tempting as chocolate cheesecake, but do your best to refrain."

And with a huff, a shake of her head at Dietrich, and another for-the-record gnaw on her lower lip, she flopped down to sit beside Alex, in the spot that Marrick had sweat into. He wasn't nice, they weren't bosom buddies, but he was familiar. He slept across the room from her, they lived together in a way that was different from how she and Sinclair and Marrick and many others lived together. She crossed her legs, right over left, and went back to determinedly reorganizing her papers.

[Sinclair] [WP -1 (Waning Gibbous)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Mickey] Whistling a high tune, purposefully off key, allowing stridency to creep into what might otherwise have been a melodic note, the Bone Gnawer approaches. He's picked up a Huge Boss suit jacket, all pinstripes and charcoal gray, the effect perhaps ruined by the torn elbow, a jagged rip that leaves threads splaying. No matter; designer chic when complimented by his car engine greased up jeans, his pink flip flops, his aviator sun glasses. Hair greasy as always and raked back behind his ears, he turns a corner in the path and runs chock into the wall of burgeoning tension that seems to suffuse this corner of the park. A moment as he stands still, and then he lowers the glasses and looks at the mass of strangers. A couple he recognizes.

One in particular.

"Gabbie!" he yells out, voice cutting and piercing through the hubbub as only that of a Galliard can. "Yo, Ms. Bellamonte. You owe me on a duet, eh?" He slides the aviators back up, and grins at her.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Who the fuck is Negative Seven?" Alex is just opening his mouth to answer the rest of that -- or at least that's what he'll say if anyone asks -- when Gabbie tells Sinclair to stop competing for the Asshole of the Year award.

And Alexander starts laughing. Not a short little guffaw, or the rough, hard, savage noise he makes sometimes before going for the proverbial throat -- but an uproarious, genuine thing.

"Hey," he manages, "hey, Sinclair, if I win Asshole of the Year, does that mean we're 3 to 1?"

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich sighed, and under his breath talking to himself.* "God damn SF Kinfolk barbie fuckin' princess. I don't have time for this fuckin' horseshit."

*He looked at Sinclair and dropped his hands to his sides waiting to see if he was gonna have to pull her, gashing teeth and furious anger, off of Gabbie. He hoped now that Bull was gone she was more in control herself like he was without the constant urging of that warlike totem. So he wanted to see what would come, prepared for the worse, hoping for the best.*

[Marrick Fisher] What, she snapped.

Marrick had caught up with little difficulty; she had been running today. She was fueled by adrenaline of the argument she had witnessed and not stepped in on. Liadan was scowling something fierce and almost awe-inspiring.

"Yer pissed," yeah, duh, "wanna come run with me?"

Like that would help. She seemed to sincerely think it would.

[Sinclair] Luckily for her neck, Sinclair doesn't have to get whiplash in order to snap her attention to Gabriella when she speaks. Her eyes flash, her head lowering slightly and pushing forward. Her lips all but twitch over her teeth for a moment. For a moment, she looks like she's about to lunge and bite Gabriella's throat, homid or no. For a moment, she doesn't even look human. And it isn't just the Rage. It's something about the way she focused all her attention on the weakest member of the group.

"When I put you to bed," Sinclair says levelly, answering Alex but keeping her eyes on Gabriella, "you claimed that negative seven equals six. Your math is horrendous when you're shitfaced. Also: you can have Asshole of the Year when you make me cry."

She takes a step forward, reaches over, and -- in a sudden lunge -- grabs a fistfull of Gabbie's hair and yanks back once sharply, enough to send a lance of pain through the girl's neck, enough to snap her head back. "You do not want to try to out-Mean-Girl me, Hotlips, I was a fuckin' cheerleader," she snarls, and lets go again.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] [WP: Know when to let it go, lady]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 6, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Liadan Whelan] Lee stops quite suddenly. Her scowl melts into a thoughtful frown.

Her olive green messenger bag is slung across her body. She's wearing denim shorts. She's wearing sandals. And she just got out of her kickboxing class. She's sore. She's ill equipped.

Her eyes meet Marrick's, and her head tips slightly, making her ponytail swish across her shoulders.

“Sure.”

She adjusts her bag, holds it in place against her hip with one hand, and takes off. Not sprinting, not going as fast as she can, not because she's not dressed for running, and not because her legs are sore. Lee has become a distance runner, choosing to take advantage of her long legs to cover more ground over a long period of time.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Dietrich mumbled something about her being a princess, and her eyes flashed toward him. There was a solid chance that she was going to go slap him in the mouth like the indignant stereotype that she'd been shoved into by his under-the-breath words, but then Sinclair's sharp eyes honed in on her, and when a beast like a Garou stares at you like that, you can't ignore it. A voice that was simultaneously smooth as melted chocolate and rough as sandpaper spoke her name, and her head twitched as though she wanted to see who it was, but she didn't trust looking away from Sinclair long enough to do so.

Her suspicions were confirmed. One second Sinclair was glaring, and the next she had lunged forward, was leaning over the bench, had shoved her fingers into her hair, pulled it out of the pretty little organized way it had been piled on the back of her head in doing so, and jerked her neck back to give her and everyone else there a happy eyeful of forceful submission by way of bared throat.

Now, Kinfolk were what they were because the blood of beasts ran in them as well. They were, in essence, a Garou stripped of power. This was what helped Liadan be extra firey, Alexander all the more arrogant and self-assured, and what had Gabriella gritting and baring her teeth when Sinclair leaned in and snarled into her face about being a cheerleader or something along those lines. Gabbie's eyes squeezed closed, tightly, and her arms jerked as though she was going to defend herself, but then pressed down tightly into her lap.

This was a fight she couldn't win.

When Sinclair let go, Gabbie turned her head sharply away from her, refused to look at her. Instead, she faced Alex, but looked past him and toward Mickey, who had called to her and was approaching. Honestly? She wanted to smile for him, he was an odd duck that left her confused and feeling as though she'd just stepped through a windstorm, but she liked him. However, it was all she could do to keep tears of shame and insult springing to her eyes. So she just looked instead.

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich is to Sinclair in a flash moving a split second after she grabs Gabbie's hair moving up quickly, but he stops short once Sinclair lets go. He looks down at Gabbie.* "Girl don't say another fucking word. Not a god damn peep. Get your shit, get the fuck up, you're leaving right fucking now." *He says in a voice that lets her know he's not playing around, and is in no mood for any of Gabbie's bullshit.

He cuts her off from the retort he knows is coming.* "No! Nothing! Up now! Move!"

*He turns to Sinclair.* "And you. Don't you ever fuckin' touch one of my kin again. I don't give a fuck if she spits in your fucking face. You get fuckin' handsy, and act like an asshole I'm gonna settle up with you. Try me Sinclair if you don't fuckin' believe me."

[Alexander Vaughn] (agghh! going too fast for me!)

Sinclair's hand flashes toward Gabbie's hair. Alexander's hand clamps down on Sinclair's wrist. He's not fast enough to keep her from grabbing Gabbie's hair, but -- well. He grabs Sinclair, all the same.

"Hey," this time he's not laughing, "chill out, Astaroth."

Whatever he might've said next is drowned out when Dietrich, who he doesn't recognize, speaks up. And he lets go a second after Sinclair does.

[Mickey] Mickey places his hands on his hips, and purses his lips. Walking into a powder key. Only thing he does see is that Gabbie is being molested and yelled at and defended and tugged and pulled from about seven different directions at once.

So he stays apart, but when she looks at him, he extends his hand to her. Come, he seems to say.

[Sinclair] Alex's hand on her wrist doesn't even get noticed, it seems. She doesn't let go of Gabbie til she's done speaking, she doesn't look at Alex, and since he lets go as soon as she does, she doesn't whip around and yell at him. Or backhand him. But when Dietrich turns on her...

...she laughs.

In Dietrich's face.

"Then keep her in line instead of whining about her," she says, her eyes all but glittering with amusement. "'Cause Dee, your little princess talks to me like that again, I would love someone to settle with who won't just simper over it." She cocks her head to one side. "Put simply, Jarhead, I shouldn't have been the one telling her not to mouth off."

[Marrick Fisher] inhale

We began like this. With running- two legs instead of four. Marrick took on a beat, a rhythm, and kept it steady so that she fell into step with Lee. They were not sprinting, they were running for distance. Marrick ran for the sake of endurance; as stated before, she found it cathartic.

Maybe Lee didn't.

exhale

Maybe it wasn't the running that she found relaxing, though. It could have been the change, or it could have been the desire to push herself. Marrick was, at her core, someone who needed boundaries. Once upon a time, she was a conformist. A traditionalist. A person who needed boundaries and rules to know how to behave.

Now, she needed boundaries because she needed to know what she had to push past.

Inhale.

She didn't say a word to Lee, she just smiled at her and kept running.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Dietrich curses at her, yells at her to get her shit and go. She wasn't even going to say anything, had parted her lips to exhale a breath slowly, steadily to keep her composure, and he assumed she would backtalk and yelled at her more. Then he and Sinclair were fighting over her as though she were a dog that just bit a child on the hand for tugging at its tail. Keep your bitch in line, she's misbehaving. Don't hit my dog. Well if you won't reign her in, who will?

Alex had grabbed Sinclair's wrist to keep her from touching her, to stop her, but it was a little too late. However, the gesture was recognized and appreciated. And several dozen feet away was Mickey, looking displeased but calm, holding out a hand to offer her an escape.

What kind of upside-down world was it when the company of a smooth-talking strange greasy man she'd only met once before was suddenly more appealing than anyone else's?

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she held her papers to her stomach with one hand and reached over to pat Alex's thigh with the other. The gesture was far from flirtatious, she would have patted his knee but that was too much of a reach. "I'll see you back home...." When she glanced to him, her eyes read 'thank you' even when her voice didn't offer it. She stood, straightened the back of her dark blue dress, and slipped between Alex's knees and Sinclair's body.

White flip-flops went back to smacking the bottoms of her feet as she walked over to Mickey, watching the ground a dozen feet in front of her, breathing and building a mask of calm during her approach.

[Liadan Whelan] Lee runs, stretching her legs beyond their stiffness, letting the muscles warm up and work past the initial pain. It's awkward at first, running in sandals and denim, holding a bag to her side. She adjusts for it, and keeps going.

The redhead concentrates on her breathing, on placing one foot in front of the other, on making sure she doesn't bowl over a pedestrian. Marrick matches her pace, and Lee tilts her head to grin at the girl.

This was good. The anger was melting away in the heat of the day, in the humidity clinging to her skin, in the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in, breathed out.

[Dietrich Burke] *He glares back at Sinclair.* "Don't you fuckin' worry about Gabbie anymore. You wanna cut through the shit. Good to go. You got it. Consider this the cherry on top of the shit cake that is your god damn attitude.

I'm gonna leave, hop in my truck, and make a special fucking trip out the Brotherhood just for you. Challenge of Grievance. For this shit here, and the shit you pulled out in the umbra. You and me are gonna fuckin' settle up. Count on it." *He turns to leave not wanting for her response.

He turns to Mickey.* "Take her to her sister's house. Don't take her to the fuckin' Brotherhood until this shit is settled." *He looks at Gabbie.* "I mean it Gabbie. Don't fuck around on this shit. You've caused enough god damn trouble for one day."

[Dietrich Burke] (wanting = waiting)

[Mickey] Mickey stands still, lean and lanky, svelte in his Hugo Boss, aviators reflecting Gabbie's approach. The ugliness of his face takes on a grim cast as he looks past her, examining the group dynamics, reading the tones in the air, but he makes no move to approach. Dietrich throws an order in his direction, yet his face remains impassive. Only when Gabbie gains his side does he turn, swivel smoothly, arm reaching out to drape across her shoulders like a genteely clad snake as he falls in step with her, head hanging low, face scrunched up into a frown.

This close he doesn't smell so great. The tang of his Rage is equally sour, but it's quiescent, still. Moving with her, back the way he just came, leaving the snarled knot of garou behind, he looks like some sort of 70's greaser boyfriend taking his girl from the right side of the tracks away for a night of dancing in some disreputable joint.

"What's up, pussy cat?" He finally says, voice low, pitched just to her ears.

[Sinclair] She lifts an eyebrow at Dietrich, her expression exaggerated, obvious, and affected. She looks at him, essentially, like he's a crazy person talking crazy words. He ends with Count on it and she starts to burst into laughter, just barely stifling it, pressing her lips together. She has to snort, and clear her throat, but as Dietrich turns to leave, she turns to look at Alex and jerks a thumb at Dietrich's back.

"We broke up awhile ago," she says, with a heavy sigh and shrug of one shoulder. Her left, the one with the metal bar and the three tattooed spikes. Her voice lowers to a whisper, her expression twisting into a small wince. "I think he's still upset."

[Dietrich Burke] ((Thanks for the scene guys. Have a good one.))

[Alexander Vaughn] The thank you in Gabriella's look is ... not appreciated or welcomed. Alexander meets her eyes for a long moment.

"We oughta talk tonight, Sweetpea. All right?"

Off she goes. Alexander, for lack of anything better to do, eats his ice cream and watches the burgeoning challenge. Oh, and comments from the peanut gallery.

"Y'know," he calls after Dietrich, "I don't know what's up with this whole umbra shit, but the more you protect Sweetpea there the more uppity she's gonna get. And pretty soon you're gonna have ... well. Me, version 2.0. Only with tits. And without the basic understanding that one of these days this sorta behavior is gonna be the death of her."

He's gone too. So Alexander turns a big phony grin on Sinclair.

"Just us again, Astaroth!"

[Liadan Whelan] [thanks for the scene, guys!]

[Alexander Vaughn] (yar!)

[Gabbie Bellamonte] We oughta talk tonight, Sweetpea. Alright?
She'd nodded before leaving. Alright.

Dietrich felt the need to yell again, just for good measure. He means it. Don't fuck around. Stay away from the Brotherhood, go back to the big empty Loft. You've fucked up enough shit for the day. Bad dog, no biscuit. Gabbie closed her eyes and ignored him, as well as the order that he threw to Mickey as though he had the right to boss a perfect stranger around. Gabbie held the seventeen printed pages of real estate to her chest, pinning them there with her arms, and walked beside Mickey as he fell into step with her.

His arm slipped around her shoulders left bare by the strapless dress, and she leaned into his side, willing to accept any form of comfort he had to offer. (Most any, we should clarify, there were still boundaries.) Could you blame her, really? She was only nineteen years old, she couldn't be stone faced, iron-resolved, and untouchable all the time, you know.

What's up? She sighed a little and shook her head. "Nothing but clouds today." Beat. "You're not going to listen to him and drag me there, are you?"

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich looks back at Alex, and snarls a bit he calls back.* "She's my god damn Albatross apparently." *Then he chuckles to himself.* "Light a fuse on your tampon. Nice." *He says to himself before he heads out of the park.*

[Marrick Fisher] (had a blast, loves, peace!)

[Mickey] "Sheee-it," drawls Mickey, voice suddenly deep and amused, "That blow hard? I don't recall him saying please." A beat as they walk, round the corner, leaving the bench and its occupants behind. "And I don't do anything if there's no please to go with it. Now, had he said pretty please? Shit. I'd have you over my shoulder and be running you over there pronto."

There's nothing on under the Hugo Boss jacket. Just pale skin and cheap tattoos. Something heavy in the jacket pocket on her side that keeps bumping into her hip. Something bottle shaped, perhaps a flask.

"So, since he's pretty much forced me into being irresponsible due to his rudeness, how about we go score some coke and find some Mexican whores?"

[Sinclair] Liadan has stalked off and Marrick followed. They're off somewhere running, two of Alex's Chicago-found conquests, tall and athletic and hot-tempered, each of them. Sinclair likes Marrick. When they're in the bathroom together it's like being in a locker room again. Sinclair doesn't know Lee. She hasn't decided on whether she wants to or not.

Dietrich is stalking away, promising a challenge, and sending Gabriella off with the greasy dude that Sinclair's never seen before. She isn't watching the Silver Fangs or their buddy as they go, since apparently the promise of 'settling' with Dietrich has already settled her a bit. Doesn't mean she's all that pleasant to be around when the moon's this full. And when it's this particular moon, she's that much less...

... well that's all there really is to it, isn't there? Less.

Just us, Astaroth.

She gives him his big phony grin right back. Hers is a little harder at the edges, then drops it. She beckons at his ice cream. "Hey, gimme a bite."

[Dietrich Burke] *He's about to leave and those pangs of duty, honor, etiquette keep egging out him, keeping nagging him that even though him and Gabbie are done he's got a duty to her. She's kin, more importantly she's kin of his tribe. So he turns and starts back at a trot.*

"I fuckin' hate Silverfangs. Especially Bellamontes. Fuck 'em all right in the god damn ear." *He says to himself as he makes his way back over toward Gabbie and Mickey.*

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Mickey was bare-chested under the jacket, and she couldn't blame him. It was hot, and the fact that he was wearing a coat at all baffled her. It was wifebeater weather. Or, in a sophisticated gal's case, strapless dress weather. In that jacket, something heavy bumped her hip as they walked, but whatever he had in there was none of her business. It could be a gun for all she cared, and she wouldn't be bothered so long as the safety was on and she could be assured that it wouldn't set accidental fire onto her appendix.

He jested with her, and she appreciated it. Misery loves company, but not in the case of someone being dragged into the dirt with them. Not for Gabbie, anyways. She wanted the kind of company that would lasso your spirits and drag them up to the platform on which they stood.

So he joked about saying please, and going to get some drugs and whores. She couldn't help but grin up at him, even if the expression was watered down it was still genuine. Another day she would have laughed out loud. "Do we have to go all the way to Mexico to get them?"

[Charlie] All told it's not a bad night to be out. The temperature's coming down, there's a decent enough breeze, and--oh, hey, it's Rupert Ainsworth III, Jr!

Charlie's dressed well enough for the weather, has the same hiking boots and jeans on that he'd been wearing yesterday when he fell asleep in the dining room of The Brotherhood, but to his credit he appears to have had a shower, a shave and a change of shirt at least. He has his hands in the slouching pockets of his Wranglers and his eyes are meandering around the park as he walks.

His Rage is hardly worth mentioning, not compared to the otherworldly aura about him, but it's there, and there is nothing remarkable about his breeding. He seems off in a way that is difficult to pin one's finger on, and his eyes are sleepy.

He doesn't look like he's heading anywhere in particular.

[Dietrich Burke] *Dietrich's blackberry rings. He pulls it out of his pocket. Stops, looks up at Gabbie. Looks at the phone, and then back to Gabbie.* "Fuck it." *He turns to head back out of the park heading to his truck. She's a big girl. Let her sister worry about her.*

[Dietrich Burke] ((Thanks for the scene. I'm out now. Have a good one.))

[Mickey] "Fuck no," says Mickey. "You'd have to pay an arm and a leg if you went down Mexico way for your whores. That lot down there are mighty proud, all strong profiles and flashing eyes, big thick manes of hair like clouds of black ink, and skin so chocolate smooth and legs all muscled and hot that they should be called fuckin' flanks. You want to fuck a bitch like that, you'd best be ready to pay some fifty, sixty bucks."

Some more steps. "No, me? I'm a cheap mother fucker. I like a girl with caked up make up, who wakes up with a bottle of wine and gets right to work. Been round the block, ain't looking for love, know what I mean? Extends me a line of credit when I come up short. That kind girl you can count on, girl with a heart of pig iron. Mmmhmm. Finger lickin' good."

Along the path they walk, Mickey, taller than Gabbie still slouched over, so that from a distance it almost looks as if she's helping him walk. About to ask her something, he spots Charlie up ahead, and a grin splits his face, animated delight, teeth flashing as he straightens and points a hand accusingly in the young kid's direction. "Shit on a brick, if it ain't old Mr. Generosity Heart Fangdango hisself! Come here, brother, I owe you a hug for that lunch."

[Alexander Vaughn] Sinclair wants a bite. Alexander looks at her cock-eyed for a second. Then he licks the ice cream cone all over before handing it to her.

"Were you really a cheerleader?"

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Mickey went into extraordinary detail about the quality of Mexican whores versus Mexican whores. She listened as though he were giving a college lecture, albeit a very strange and probably inappropriate one. Her eyebrow lifted in a way that said, very clearly: Oh... kay then... Even if her voice didn't.

But then he was looking at someone up ahead. Generous Fandango, or some such. Gabbie let her arm fall away from Mickey's waist and went to holding the papers along with the other arm instead.

A stranger popped up, so she went quiet and let Charlie and Mickey do their catching up, content to hover wherever they leave her.

Nothing like having your hair pulled, neck hurt, and pride slashed to leave you humble.

[Charlie] Mr. Generosity Heart Fangdango can't be much older than the Fang kinswoman next to Mickey, to look at him. He's probably not even old enough to drink, but he's out here with night on the horizon looking like he's out for a stroll at midday without a care or a complaint.

His pace slows as the two of them come into slightly-raised-voice range, and his brown eyes flick between the slouched paper-clutching girl and the bantam rocker before settling on the man who's threatening to hug him in repayment for yesterday's lunch.

"Nah, you don't owe me anything."

[Mickey] "Fair enough, ain't going to press it." Mickey doesn't seem particularly put out by the loss of hug opportunity. Instead, he steps a little aside and half turns to Gabbie, presenting her to Charlie. "This here is Ms. Gabbie Belamonte. She may deny it but she's got a voice like an angel, and can hit those high notes without any particular stimulation." He frowns at her. "Or at least, very little."

He raises his eyebrows at her, smiles, and lets her take it over from there.

[Sinclair] It's hot out here, or warm if you're used to heat. The day is late and the sun is in the west, livid and starting to turn orange. It's summer, and now the days are dying earlier as though to rescue them all from the intense heat of those days. This is ice cream weather.

Sinclair doesn't say please. Alex doesn't tell her to fuck off. And she takes the cone from his hand with some impatience, but no disgust, and takes a large bite of what's left, mauling his treat and then handing it back as she rolls the ice cream around in her mouth. Girl knows a thing or two about brain freeze, yes she does.

"Fuck yeah," she scoffs, after swallowing. "What was that with you grabbin' on me a minute ago?"

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Charlie gave her a glance, and what that glance offers is what was probably a sad story. A pretty girl, petite to a point but not super small (about 5'4" in her flip-flops), dressed in a dark blue strapless dress with pink and yellow ocean designs on it was what Gabbie appeared to be today. Her long light copper hair had been pulled up under a pretty clip, but a large chunk of it was hanging loose, looking as though it had been grabbed and pulled viciously out of place-- ...Oh wait, that's exactly what happened! She had computer printed papers held to her chest and the air of a kicked dog trying to look like it didn't just get kicked around her.

Mickey introduced them in a flair all his own, and Gabbie chuckled a bit and shook her head, then extended a hand for a polite and proper shake with the person she was meeting. "I can assure you that he doesn't know that from experience."

[Alexander Vaughn] The sound Alex makes is most definitely a guffaw. "No shit? If I ever beat you at Soul Calibur, you need to do a routine." He takes his ice cream back and licks over the jagged gap in his triple-scoop until it's smoothed over again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he reminds himself that now he could totally brag that he's swapped saliva with Sinclair. Except he doesn't think she'd be offended. Which defeats the purpose.

And then she wants to know about the grabbing. And he frowns, not at her but into the middle distance.

"I have no idea," he says after a while. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

[Charlie] There's a light frown flittering on the kid's brow as the Gnawer whose name he still hasn't managed to actually finagle introduces--no, there's not much autonomy or reciprocity in the way that Gabbie Bellamonte's name comes up; this is a presentation--the girl. Between the way she seems to be trying to hide in plain sight and the mussed-up hair it's clear she's having a rough night, but nothing of that is mentioned.

"I'm assured," the kid says. He thinks for a moment, as if dredging up something from the unreliable haze of his memory banks, then stiffly offers his right hand, hoping she'll know what to do with it once it's there. "I'm Charlie."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Charlie can trust that Gabbie knows how to take over a show of polite gestures, a game of chess-manners if you will. This is what she was learning alongside arithmetic in classes, after all. She took his hand with her own petite one, fingernails clean and well kept, but short and with a simple layer of clear paint on top of them. No fake nails, no glitter, no nice colors. Simple and clean was what she opted for. She gripped his hand loosely, feminine rather than wimpy and far from overpowering, gave it a few small bobs, and flashed her straight white teeth that, by some miracle, never had to see braces in her younger years in a smile that was very well practiced.

"Well, nice to meet you, Charlie."

She dropped his hand, and the smile faded a little. Once posturing was done, she found that she was still ruffled, still hurt and offended, and still didn't quite know where to go now.

[Mickey] "Aw, ain't that special," says Mickey, beaming at them both, their reflections cast in each of his aviator glass's lenses. His grin is wide, but it's missing something; reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a pack of crushed Marlboro's, and taps a cigarette out. Clamps it between his teeth, and then begins to absent mindedly pat his jean pockets for a lighter.

"You guys look like a pair of kids in a play ground, making nice and all. Real sweet." Eyebrows rise into view over the shades, "No, I mean it. This day and age, people are liable to spit and get all riled up for no good reason, tossing manners to the wayside. Not us though, not us good citizens of the world."

He fishes out the lighter. "Now, Charlie, be honest; you looking to head up this path here and meet a bunch of other furry folk who just might be lounging around on a bench, or you want to come along with us and find a little fun? Gabbie here is in need of a little cheering up, as you may have noticed."

A pause, and he leans in, peering closer at Charlie face. "But maybe you didn't. So I'm telling you. This pretty little thing needs some cheering up. You going to help?"

[Charlie] The hand that meets Gabbie's is long-fingered, with painfully blunt nails and a coolness that isn't typical amongst their kind. He's not overly tall, tops out around 5'11" with the help of the soles of his beat-to-Hell hiking boots, and he's so goddamn gaunt it's a wonder his pants aren't falling down around his knees as he walks.

"Nice to meet you," he parrots, as though he's still working his way through the strange introductory dance that they're doing, when the Gnawer chimes in.

There's something mind-boggingly charismatic about Mickey, or Rupert Ainsworth III, Jr., or whatever he's calling himself tonight. He's a sore sight on the eyes and he couldn't be mistaken for well-mannered if the person he were talking to were blind and deaf, but he speaks as though he's absolutely delighted to have himself an audience, and as Charlie releases Gabbie's hand from his firm yet polite grip he finds himself looking not at the assaulted kinswoman but at their ringleader.

He frowns again, apparently having noticed that Gabbie wasn't in the highest of spirits tonight, though he doesn't look any further up the path to confirm that there are indeed more of the Nation hanging out on a bench. He listens until the completion of Mickey's speech, then turns his softened attention back to Gabbie. If the way he's looking at her is any indication he's reading what's there, but it's not in the way Gabbie has to be used to being looked at. This isn't a look of attraction or appraisal. If anything he looks concerned.

"Sure."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Bless Mickey's heart. He was a charismatic oddity. Despite his brash nature, his state of half-dress, his greasy hair and close-together eyes, Gabbie found herself liking him. He had an easy sense of humor, he was very comfortable in his own skin, and all too happy to have company around him, to keep them engaged.

But he stated, point blank, that she needed cheering up, and that made her feel awkward. It had Charlie laying sympathetic eyes on her, ones of concern, of quiet questioning that didn't insist upon having an answer. The girl fumbled with the papers in her hands, and suddenly felt sick of them. She felt like she was hiding behind them, and while she had wanted to review them and show them to someone roughly thirty or forty minutes ago, she was now scoping the area for a trashcan to discard them in.

How silly of her for thinking she could go out and not run into somebody troubling, into people that would ask questions rather than let her blend into the quiltwork that was society.

None nearby. She'd just have to hang on to them.

Her eyes lifted, grazed over the gaunt face of Charlie and the vulpine face of Mickey, and she forced a small smile. "So... is the plan still hookers and coke?"

[Mickey] "Hell no," says Mickey, finding his lighter and bringing it to his face, cupping it but not striking it yet. "Strippers and coke are for the anointed, those confident in the girth of their loins and the penetrating power of their surface to air missiles. And frankly, and no offense here Charlie, none intended, I'm thinking you're looking a little peaky."

He flicks the lighter, flame pops up, is cupped, inhaled into the end of the cigarette, lowered as he puffs away contentedly for a moment. "No, what we're going to do is a trifle more sedate, a little safer, but perhaps with an equal amount of fun in it." He pauses, takes the cigarette from his mouth. "We're gonna jack a car in front of some cops, and see how long it takes them to pull us over."

[Sinclair] Sinclair snorts at him. He's right, even though he doesn't know her well enough to be certain. She's the type to say it's just spit. She's the type to act like nudity is no big deal. She thinks nothing of confessing that she was a cheerleader, does not seem ashamed, would likely not react to being teased over it. Hell, she threatened Gabriella with that as her backing.

Her hands go into the back pockets of her shorts, elbows akimbo and cocking a brow upwards. "You ever beat me at Soul Calibur and I'll even wear the uniform," she vows, her voice dripping with disbelief. It's never going to happen. Alex has no fucking chance of ever beating her at Soul Calibur IV. Alex has no fucking chance of beating her at anything. Ever. She's not concerned.

"Grabbing the wrist of a pissed-off wolf and telling her to chill out, when she's pissed off because of a bratty little kin telling her what to do... seemed like a good idea?" She's flat. She blinks once. "Who dropped you on your head when you was a baby, Al?" she asks, hands out of her pockets and arms crossing over her chest now.

[Charlie] Charlie's right hand returns itself to the empty confines of his pocket, and he sets himself back to prepare himself for another barrage of speech from the man who either has to be a New Moon or a Gibbous Moon if the volume of speech that his throat produces in a given chunk of time is any indication.

His eyebrows elevate themselves on his forehead as the corners of his mouth go taut with amusement, and he seems genuinely tickled as he says, "None taken."

Then the plan. This man seems to be full of them, and they change according to his audience and his mood, and the audience and mood tonight dictates that they engage in activities that have a low threshold for arrest. Turning around to fall in line with the two of them, Gabbie between himself and Mickey, Charlie eyes the shades-wearing Gnawer.

His eyebrows remain elevated, as if he's patiently waiting to call Mickey's bluff, but he says nothing.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Taunt the police?

When she had been involved in one of the year's bloodier unsolved crimes? When she still worried from time to time that a police officer would come find her, slap handcuffs on her wrists, and drag her in for double homicide, obstruction of justice, use of an illegal firearm, and other charges that she didn't even know existed?

No thank you.

Gabbie licked her lips, shook her head, and glanced toward the road that could be spotted through the trees, one that would take her toward the loft (where, honestly, she intended to grab her car and drive to the Brotherhood. Partly because she was not going to be ordered around by Dietrich Burke, and partly because she told Alex she'd talk to him tonight), and then looked back up to Mickey. "I think I'll pass in favor of going home, cleaning up, and calling some woman friends. No offense, but nothing better to recover from assult by the dominant species than to... ah.... not be around them."

[Alexander Vaughn] "Obviously it wasn't," Alexander bristles, irritated now. "Did I say I still thought it was a good idea? Did I? No; I said I have no idea what that was. What do you want, a fucking apology?"

[Mickey] Mickey holds a straight face for a moment longer, and then it collapses in on itself, his grin resurfacing, his laughter bubbling out as Gabbie quickly recuses herself from such a madcap plan. He laughs, the laughter pure and unabashed, tilting his head back, and then he shakes it, stumbling forward, turning around so as to be backtracking away from her.

"Gabbie, hon, sizzle tits, you thought for realzies I would take a good lookin' girl like you on a car robbery? C'mon now, not on our second date; I usually leave the good shit till at least the third."

He straightens, smiling, and takes another drag. Blows it, adjusts his glasses, and then nods. "But if you got to get your tight little tush home to clean up or whatever, I understand. You got to look good to hang out with me. Only right. In fact, I'd offer to come back with you and make sure you take good and proper care of yourself, but then that would mean leaving Charlie here all on his lonesome, and with him just in town, that'd be a crime."

He turns to look at the newcomer. "So, looks like comforting babes in their time of need is right out. What else you up for? I'm guessing you're not a drinking man, and talking ain't your forte, so either we go hunting, or I bet you're going to whip out a chess board or something. Tarot cards? Thumb war? Hmm?"

Back to Gabbie. "Look me up sometime, eh? Let's get some hot chocolate and snuggle up by a fire someplace and really talk. I'll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours."

[Sinclair] The look she gives him is about as flat as a sheet of paper. She sticks her tongue into her cheek, bulging it outward for a moment. One of her hand balls into a fist where it's tucked between bicep and ribcage.

"Dude, just don't do shit like that, I mighta broken your damn hand!"

[Alexander Vaughn] "And that would've served me right, wouldn't it have?" This has got to be the most illogical argument ever. "Do whatcha gotta, Astaroth. But don't tell me what to do, all right? If I wanna be an idiot and get my hand, or my face, or my back broken -- by you or by whomever the fuck else -- that's my business. I understand and accept the consequences, yadda yadda, signed the disclaimer on the dotted line, but I'll do what I want."

[Sinclair] "Don't put fucking words in my mouth, shit demon," she shoots back. "I just wanted t'figure out what the fuck ya thought you were doin'." Her voice raises further, and suddenly she's shouting. "And apparently you know e'zactly what you were doin'!"

She looks furious. No, she looks annoyed. If she were furious she'd have gone for his eyes. Maybe his crotch. "Jesus fuckin' Herbert Christ, you're an assumptive, constipated fuckwad."

[Charlie] Charlie had made some comment yesterday insinuating that with as little input as possible he could just sit back and watch Mickey keep right on rolling all afternoon. The Theurge doesn't open his mouth to play along with Mickey's charade, and Gabbie makes an attempt to excuse herself from the evening's festivities by citing an assault from one of their lot.

That makes Charlie frown again, but he doesn't speak. Doesn't have much of a chance to: Mickey is off and running again, and though several questions and suggestions for what they could do next are offered up, there isn't the opportunity to respond. To look at him, or to listen to the absence of sound coming from his swatch of the path, this kid isn't overly talkative.

So he continues on along the path, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him rather than on the rattled kinswoman at his side. He reaches up a hand to stifle a yawn.

[Mickey] Mickey laughs. "Looks like it's past your bedtime, son."

[Alexander Vaughn] Around the time she calls him a shit demon, Alexander presses his lips together for a moment.

Then: "Are you going to tear my head off if I start laughing?"

[Sinclair] "Gimme another bite of your ice cream," she snaps, holding out her hand. That's his answer, apparently.

[Charlie] On the tail end of his yawn, Charlie lets a laugh of his own out, and shakes his head as if to wake himself up.

"Nah," he says, "I don't sleep so good at night."

[Alexander Vaughn] He hands it over. "You can have it all. It's too sweet, and I don't eat sweets much. I'm about to puke." Goddamn health nut.

"Anyway, I didn't know what I was doing. I don't know. Stupid little twit deserved to have her hair pulled. I guess maybe I thought you were about to pull her head off, and she didn't deserve that. Kneejerk reaction." Pause. "Not that I'm some sort of white knight trying to save the damsel or anything. I hate that shit."

[Mickey] "You a nocturnal animal?"

[Charlie] He gives this genuine thought, as if the question is more complex than Mickey might have originally thought it was going to be, then pulls a dismissive face and shakes his head slowly.

"I don't think so. At least, if I am I don't mean to be. I don't sleep so good during the day either, but I dream a lot. I don't dream at night. Just kind of lie there. I gave up trying a while ago."

[Mickey] "Huh," says Mickey. "Maybe you should try some chemical alternatives." Another beat. "But then I'm guessing you're not much into that either."

Charlie's company is far from stimulating. So after a few more steps, Mickey lapses into silence. Content with simply walking along, no distinct destination in purpose. Half expecting Charlie to simply pull off and change direction at some point.

[Charlie] "What makes you say that?" he asks. If he's offended he's a damn good liar--he seems more curious than cranky.

[Sinclair] It's Sinclair's turn to laugh, though it's barely more than a huff as she starts in on his ice cream. There's something obviously disparaging in the laugh, either because he says it's too sweet or because he's about to puke. He can hear it as Puny Mortal! if he likes, or a chortle at his health consciousness. She starts in on his ice cream quite happily, enjoying it as much as a kid might. She's not much more than a kid, though. Early twenties? Late teens? Seems older than Marrick and Gabriella, is most certainly younger than Alex.

She doesn't flop on the bench next to him but remains standing. "Well," she drawls, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist and looking at him rather than his ice cream cone again, "it seems we have both learned valuable lessons today about each other. First, I now know that if you do something stupid you're perfectly willing to take what you get for it. Second, you now know that I'm a hair-puller."

There's a beat. A drop of ice cream melts onto her finger. She puts her other hand on her hip. "I ain't gonna pull the damn girl's head off just for bein' mouthy. Not like I frenzied. But." Another beat. She licks her finger clean, very nearly smears ice cream across her cheek, but narrowly avoids doing so. "Now you know that."

[Mickey] "I dunno. You seem placid, doped out, introspective, content to just let things go by until you're forced into action." Mickey clamps down on the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling through his nostrils. "Quiet, content Theurgey type. Seeing into the great beyond, half out of it the whole time. And if you do dope up, get drunk? Then it's probably just in aid of some spirit quest."

[Charlie] At some point during their conversation Gabbie takes their distraction as an opportunity to slip away without a fare thee well or anything else, and though Charlie is momentarily sidetracked by her hurrying away he doesn't appear to have missed too much. The laundry list is still going when he turns back to Mickey.

"Well, I wasn't looking for no spirits last night," he supposes, "but it did help me find a place to spend the night so I guess you aren't entirely talking out of your ass."

[Mickey] Mickey snorts. "For once, eh?" He flashes Charlie a grin, and then takes another drag from his cigarette. And then he lapses into silence again, pace picking up a little speed.

[Charlie] The skinny Theurge doesn't step up his walk to keep pace with Mickey, and though he quiets for a moment all that really does is give Charlie the opportunity to respond rather than holding his peace for once. The grin is met with a more modest hint of a smile that suffuses the rest of his face as he walks, as though he's calmer with the dwindling conversation and the approaching site of the waning moon.

"Yeah," he says, and swings his elbows to the rhythm of an unheard beat, eyes drifting towards the sky.

[Alexander Vaughn] Her little what have we learned today? routine makes Alex smirk, but at the end of it the smirk is gone, and he's frowning at her. He looks puzzled. And he continues looking puzzled while he watches her for a minute.

Abruptly, he bursts out with, "What the hell is this shit?" He sounds genuinely puzzled; a little pissed off. "I'm not supposed to like you." He bites his lip for a moment, thinking. "Let's go play Soul Calibur IV on my Xbox," he decides. "If you beat me I'll get mad at you again. And if I beat you then you'll do a cheerleader routine in costume. It's a win-win."

[Mickey] Mickey continues to walk for awhile, and then stops, turns to face the Theurge. Takes a final drag on his cigarette, and then flicks it away. Aviators still on, he examines the kid, and cocks his head to one side.

"Look - Charlie?" As if unsure if the name is correct. "You're big on the yawns and the quiet sarcasm, but frankly I'm not getting much else from you. If you're as bored as you seem, why don't you go find somebody else who's more your speed?"

[Charlie] Charlie squints, as if he's trying to figure out whether it's worth his time to attempt to rebuke what's just been said, then pulls his hands out of his pockets and indicates the direction he had been heading in before with both index fingers.

"I'll just go that way!" he says, disproportionately enthusiastic, and turns on his heel to head off in no great hurry.

[Sinclair] She shrugs helplessly at him with a dry half-roll of her eyes. "Don't know what to tell you, man." She really doesn't. What is this shit, liking her? If anything, after her loose shrug and dismissive expression she just shoves ice cream in her mouth to stop anything awkward from coming out. Or maybe because the ice cream helps her think.

When he suggests that they go play video games she rolls her eyes in truth, shaking her head and then jerking it towards the East. "You're gonna lose. I've been jimmyin' your lock and sneaking in there to play with Joey for, like...weeks now."

Which hopefully gets him mad at her again. It's something they can argue about as they head back towards the Brotherhood. And it's Alex's own fault if he ends up with a half-eaten ice cream cone thrown at his chest.

[Mickey] Which suits Mickey just fine. Shaking his shoulders like a dog shaking off water, he fishes out another cigarette, and continues in the direction he'd been going.

[Mickey] (*laughs* Thanks for the scene!)

[Charlie] [Thank you! :D ]

[Sinclair] [Thanks for the RP, folks!]

[Alexander Vaughn] (you're thanking .... me.)

[Sinclair] [Is there a problem with that?]

[Sinclair] [JUST 'CAUSE THEY LOGGED OUT.]

[Sinclair] [REHREHREHREHREH]

[Alexander Vaughn] (*sad* here i thought you were thanking me! i thought you liked me! i thought you really really liked me!)

[Alexander Vaughn] (*hysterical sob scream* *runs away sobbing*)

[cricket] (....)

unnerving.

[Liadan Whelan] It's been rainy and drizzly in Chicago for days, but that doesn't stop Líadan Whelan from going out. An early morning appointment had kept her from her morning jog through Grant Park, but she's making it up for it now.

She's wearing a brown sleeveless hoody over a pink tee shirt, zipped so whatever logo printed on the tee is hidden. Her pace is not quick. She stretches her legs into a long, easy stride, her Adidas sneakers splashing heedlessly through the occasional puddle. Pedestrians are sparse in this weather. Only the diehard tourists, the ones whose planes leave first thing in the morning, are out, trying to get their vacation snapshots in despite the dreary weather.

Líadan doesn't think the weather is all that bad. She prefers gray, overcast skies to sunny ones. For one thing, her skin doesn't burn as quickly. Her iPod is in a pocket of her hoody, wireless earbuds in her ears.

Don’t have too many friends
Never felt at home
Always been my own man
Pretty much alone

[Alexander Vaughn] Jogging again. Sunny today though, the last reddish rays of the evening casting eastward over the waters. Some people jog with ipods and the like; Alex likes the sound of the wind in his ears, his feet on the pavements, his breath whistling through his lungs. He's coming up from behind Liadan. As he passes her, without warning, he grabs her hood and yanks it over her head. Then he spins around so he's jogging backwards, slowing to a stop a few feet away.

"I'm scared of you when I see you during the day," he announces. "You're much saner at night."

[Liadan Whelan] [manip+subt: OH HAY WE COOL]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 3, 3, 3, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Liadan Whelan] Her hood is suddenly yanked from her head, exposing the long red ponytail tied high on the back of her head. When her head whips to the side to look for her would be assailant, her hair comes around to slap against the side of her face. An athletic, muscular figure darts in front of her, turns to face her, and her stomach sinks. She doesn't show it, though. When brown eyes meet hazel, her expression is mild, bland, but her brows raise quizzically.

She doesn't pause her stride, just reaches up and pulls the earbuds out and stashes them in a pocket.

“What's that?” Her breath is steady, even. She's done this long enough now, this daily running routine, that her body has finally adjusted to the work. She doesn't pant or gasp when she talks, although her words are wont to be breathy on the exhale.

[Alexander Vaughn] "I said," he shifts from foot to foot, hands on his hips, shaking his legs out, "you're much saner at night. I'm scared when I see you in the day."

[Liadan Whelan] Her head tilts to the side, her ponytail bobbing behind her. “When have I talked to you during the day?”

[Alexander Vaughn] "How about the day you tried to brain me with a laptop?" Alex quirks an eyebrow at Lee.

[Liadan Whelan] Her eyes go to the side, her mouth open in a silent, “Oh.” Oh yeah, that was around sunset, wasn't it?

She turns back to grin at him. Her arms stop pumping up and down as she spreads them wide, looking down. “Don't have one today, though. Aren't you a lucky boy.”

[Alexander Vaughn] "I'm sure you can find something to wing at me." He falls in beside her, matching his gait to her slower one. "Where'd you go that night? I looked for you on the street, but you'd vanished."

[Heckles the Wyrm] It's a gunmetal sky that still mists down rain, making distances haze and everything seem ethereal and otherworldly. Pedestrians are few, tourists fewer. The dull roar of traffic is muted, and the park seems a realm apart.

Mickey is sitting on a park bench, sprawled, arms thrown over the bench back, pulling open his ratty black leather jacket, no shirt beneath, just bare skin slick against the air, tattoos sullen blues, crudely inked. Legs kicked out, jeans stained and torn, he seems boneless, vicious. A cigarette is clenched between his teeth, his head cocked back, so that the occasional plume of smoke is blown out through his teeth into the damp air. Brown hair is slicked back to curl in oily ringlets about his ears and the nape of his neck, and his vicious hawk of a face is cast in what seems to be a permanent sneer. Drawn, wan, sallow, features unhealthy and tight pinched, he watches the joggers run by, eyes reflecting nothing.

[Heckles the Wyrm] (going with liadan's original room desc)
to Alexander Vaughn, Joss Lehrer, Liadan Whelan

[Liadan Whelan] She slants him a glance from the corner of her eye. “Aw, were you worried poor little me wouldn't get home okay? I'm so touched I think I could cry.” Her eyes go back to the front. A quick dart to the side, a quick dart back, and she zig zags around a family trying to get their picture taken by one of the statues in Grant Park.

“Taxi,” she says when they're side by side again. “What about you?” She openly looks him up and down. “I see that crazy French lady didn't take your head off.”

She took her eyes off the path to look at Alexander, relying foolishly on her peripheral vision to warn her of any impending obstacles. Her peripheral vision failed her. When she looks ahead again, she only just manages to dance around the outstretched legs of a thin, sallow smoking man. Her narrow dodge takes her around in almost a full circle. “Sorry!” Líadan completes the circle, intending to continue on her way, and her conversation with Alexander.

[Joss Lehrer] She doesn't seem bothered by the rain. In fact, it's rare that she seems bothered by anything, but all the same, she seems quite content to be walking in the misty rain, under a gunmetal sky. Being Sunday, it's not so unusual to see women wandering bout in dresses and skirts, but she looks ever the same as she always does. A light flimsy flowy skirt in earthtone colors, with a dark brown sweater pulled down over her hips. Her dreads hang heavily over her shoulders, the longest of them clinging to her sweater at the samll of her back.

Her feet encased in comfortable flats, her steps are near soundless as she tucks her hands into the pockets of her skirt, and makes her way along the path - that also holds joggers, and walkers, and Laidan and Alex - as if she hasn't a care in the world.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Hardly." He wasn't worried. She doesn't look touched, either. They zigzag around some family, and then Lee almost runs into some spindly guy. "And yeah. Her muscular friend dragged her off kicking and screaming. I had the rare good sense to stay upstairs until they were out of sight."

A pause.

"Sorry about... y'know. Telling you to shove off. You were trying to help."

[Alexander Vaughn] (folks, i'm uuuuberslow. go around me if you have to!)

[Heckles the Wyrm] His legs are kicked out like he owns the path, like he's sitting in his own goddamn living room, but still, eyes narrow into slits as both joggers narrowly avoid tripping over his spindly legs. His response is succinct. Before they've gone more than a pace, he reaches up, takes the cigarette from his lips, and flicks it sharply right at Liadan's back.

[Liadan Whelan] [WP: Aw hell naw!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Heckles the Wyrm] (grabbing a plate of food - brb)
to Alexander Vaughn, Joss Lehrer, Liadan Whelan, liar, Nessa

[Liadan Whelan] The cigarette flicks into her calf. She feels the heat of it connect, feels the still light end singe her flesh. She spins, running backwards as Alexander had after he tugged her hood down. The intentionally vicious act sends fire racing through her veins, and she wishes she had a laptop handy to hurl at the man on the bench. A deep breath, difficult to achieve while running backwards, and she suppresses the irrational urge to fly at the spindly man.

Instead she just says, “Hey, buddy, watch it!”

Completing yet another revolution, she says to Alexander, eyes carefully turned away, “No worries.”

[Nessa] Nessa burns. The sensation is good, familiar, the muscles working smoothly, flexing and releasing as she pushes on Gaia and rises and falls, again and again, the burn in her thighs, calves, exactly what she wants it to be.

Such a lovely evening. Such a lovely night. The rain blesses her, the grandaughter of Thunder as she runs, leaps over some puddles because she can. Her body is trained, honed, muscular where she's made it be so. Tonight, running through the rain is like running through the gauziest of fabrics, silky, smooth where her pink running skirt exposes (most of) her long legs to the elements. What hair is sneaking under the cap is up in braids-- no. Down in braids, they've gotten free again. All of this, and more, for this woman is not a simple city girl running through a tame park. She is sister to werewolves, daughter of werewolf, and part of her soul is just as wild...

Two familiar faces, both barely known to her. She angles towards them, always one to interrupt pleasure with business.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander isn't nearly so contained. He spins around, goes right back to Heckles.

"What the fuck, man?"

[Joss Lehrer] Her gaze flick toward the the couple as someone sends a cigarette toward them, a brow arching slightly as she continues her ambling walk in their direction. She sidesteps a puddle, then splashes right through another, and if there's some reason for it - it's not so easy that anyone else can see.

Likely, she's just nuts.
(Magic 8 ball says: All signs point to yes!)

[Liadan Whelan] And it turns out she needn't have worried about keeping her eyes away. Alexander stopped and went back to the spindly man and, true to form, rises up with righteous indignation.

Sometimes she can't tell if Alexander is a nice guy masquerading as an asshole, or if he's an asshole who pretends to be a nice guy sometimes.

Either way, she stops and turns to watch, not going back to interject herself between the two. Hands on hips, she breathes through her nose, catching her breath.

[Heckles the Wyrm] Mickey rises to his feet. He ignores Alexander, it's as if his spitted commentary hadn't even happened. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Liadan. Pulls himself up like it hurts him to move, lanky and lean and looking like he's had three nights out on the town without a break. Stains on his jeans are most likely mud, dark, cracked where they've dried over the creases. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a crumpled box of cigarettes. Continues to ignore Alexander as he draws one out in a practiced movement, sticks it in his mouth. It's broken in the middle.

"Oopsie," he drawls to the woman beyond.

[Alexander Vaughn] Of course, for Alexander to be either nice guy masquerading as asshole or vice versa would assume he was doing this out of some sort of chivalry, some sort of altruistic concern for his fellow man. Woman. Kin.

There's no real guarantee of that. Then again, no one here really knows him. Lee knows he's hot tempered as fuck; she knows he beat Aidan's face in; she knows he tried to beat Hatchet's face in and got his own smashed instead. She knows he tried to face down Katherine, aka crazy Frenchwoman, and ended up crumpled on the ground -- not because a fist felled him but because his nerve could only last so long.

And yet here he is again. And Mickey is getting to his feet, and Alexander stands a compact, muscular 5'9" -- the sort of intensely, obsessively honed physique that screams of some sort of overcompensation. He's getting ignored, so he acts on impulse -- reaches out and snatches the fresh cigarette out of Mickey's mouth, throws it on the ground.

And bares his teeth in a shiteating grin. "Those things'll kill ya, man."

[Heckles the Wyrm] Mickey doesn't react when the cigarette is plucked from his lips. Doesn't even blink, as if he's stoned, as if his reaction time is lagging some ten seconds late. Even standing he's slouching, like he can't be bothered to stand straight before the direct threat that is Alexander Vaughn. Which, to any other observer, would seem a real and true threat; Mickey is probably half his weight, and from the way it looks he's been living, it doesn't seem likely he'll make it to twenty.

Instead, he reaches down and taps out another cigarette. This one's bent at a crazy angle, and he stares at it morosely before flicking it away and pulling out a third.

Surely it's a coincidence that he flicks it right at Alexander's face.

[Nessa] She arrives, slows her rhythmic pace, her face flushes nicely to pink and porcelain, though her features are rather plain to someone unable to see the mysteries and shadows within her.

Interesting things are happening. The scent of asshole rises in the rain. All of it interests the Shadowlord kin, as she stops near to Liadan, peers at her face to identify her satisfactorily, then Alex-- yes, him. Then the guy on the bench who might be about to jones for nicotine and violence.

Three against one.
"That is one way to quit smoking," she comments, her tone dry, accent very Russian.

[Joss Lehrer] A smile lingers around her lips, as she runs her tongue over the piercings from the inside of her lower lip, the move flowing into a soft chuckle. Alex grabs that cigarette and throws it, and blue eyes follow it's path idly, briefly. Then the altercation continues, and she wanders nearer, curious.

Two become three, with her as forth, making no effort to hide the fact that she's watching.

[Liadan Whelan] Alexander rips a cigarette from the stranger's mouth, grins and mouths off. Lee rolls her eyes.

The stranger flicks a fresh cigarette in Alexander's face, and she throws up her hands.

“You boys have fun,” she says. She turns and comes face to face with Nessa. She recognizes the woman, has seen her twice in passing.

[Alexander Vaughn] It's not coincidence that Alexander reacts exactly the way one might expect him to:

By throwing a punch.

[Heckles the Wyrm] Mickey doesn't seem to see it coming. Or if he does, his only reaction that split second before the fist connects is to smile, a ghastly rictus grin that flashes across his face before the weight of Alexander's punch sends him staggering back, head snapping to one side, wiping the smile clear off his face.

It's no joke to be hit in the face. It's not something most people can shrug off, even Garou, especially when in homid. So it staggers Mickey, takes him a moment to regain his balance, and then for the first time he slides his eyes over to look at Alexander. Tracks his gaze to lock onto him like suddenly he's gone from not existing to being the only thing in the park. And that smile's back, subtler now, engaged, pleased.

Reaching up, he rakes back his hair, pops the third cigarette into his mouth, and begins to walk toward the kin, ignoring the blood coming from his split lip.

[Nessa] The Russian kin steps back a few steps, away from teh impending violence; as yet, she sees no reason to do anything more than take Alex's measure. He fought before, he's fighting again. All in all, a violently minded man.

Not bad.

Nessa smiles at Liadan, bemused, in between watching the fight. "Nessa. Friend of Lonna's. Chicago is small place."
She wasn't quite out of breath in her run but wasn't far from it, either; her inhales are deep, measured, but given that the tanktop she wears conceals the far lower beginning of the alphabet, probably no one is going to break his neck turning to watch her chest move.
Still. It's a wet shirt.
One minute she's talking, the next, the man from the bench is moving towards Liadan, who knows Alex, who knows Lonna, and that is enough connection. Her eyes narrow at Heckles, a stormy blue of Don't Fuck With the Girl.
Or maybe its, Should I Run Yet?
Or, WTF now?

[Alexander Vaughn] It is entirely possible that Alexander has no idea what he's facing. It's also possible he has some inkling and doesn't care. Or worse, feels himself all the more driven to ...

... prove something. Make a point. Batter himself stupid against a wall that will never, ever give.

Mickey shakes the punch off. Or ignores it. Alexander's not sure which. He smiles and puts the third cigarette in his mouth and starts coming on.

It's unnerving as shit.

There's this to be said for Alexander: he punches like a man who knows what he's doing. He's not an amateur. The blow was hard, lightning-fast, a right cross that comes straight from the shoulder and back, the brunt of impact taken on the first knuckles, the fingers slightly loosened. There's also this to be said: whether foolhardy or brave, he doesn't back down from Mickey's advance. His balance becomes lighter on the balls of his feet, his stance ready.

Mickey can see his adam's apple bob as he swallows.

[Joss Lehrer] She laughs, softly, as the first punch is thrown and the man succeeds in his determination to put a cigarette between his lips on the way back for more. She's close enough now that she hops up on the seat of the bench where it all started, her feet lightly landing on the wet slats, her arms flaring to the side as she keeps her balance effortlessly.

She turns then, and sinks to perch on the back of the bench, folding foward as she rests her elbows on her knees, her chin in hand, watching them. That smile lingers, playing along her lips, sparkling in her eyes.

[Liadan Whelan] The Fiann woman's head tilts, thick red hair brushing against her shoulder. She frowns at Nessa's introduction. The last time she saw this woman, Danicka was plucking the woman's hand from her arm, and then the two inhabitants of 520 Kingsbury had left for tapas.

Her reply is short, simple. “Lee.” Back to the impending fight now, she doesn't see Alexander punch Micky, doesn't see the smile on Micky's face as he comes for Alexander.

“Hey, Nessa, what d'you say we get out of her before we become accessories to a crime?”

[Liadan Whelan] [doh!: *Mickey in all those places]

[Heckles the Wyrm] Mickey evinces the wiry strength of the lean, hard to keep down type, not unbreakable, not supernatural, just mean enough that with enough attitude he seems able to take a punch and come back for more. Nothing about him suggests he can take Alexander down. The kin is all smooth muscle, healthy glow, chiseled determination and practiced skill. Mickey is etoilated party trash, reeking of smoke and sour sweat. His hands aren't up in a boxing stance, he's not gliding forward, he's not doing anything that reflects the fact that he's walking toward a clearly ready-to-go opponent.

Rather, he gets within a yard, close enough for Alex to swing again, and pulls out his lighter. And unless Alex knocks him back, lights up his cigarette, cupping the flame to his face, inhales and exhales sharply, narrowing his eyes against the smoke.

Narrowed, but still fixed on the kin. Blood leaking down his chin from the badly split lip. "Honey," he says, "Give me a kiss and I won't break your back."

[Alexander Vaughn] What? -- a comet of confusion across Alex's mind.

And then he punches Mickey again.

This is Grant Park. Eventide. Sunday. There are joggers aplenty. Strollers too. Singletons, couples, small groups of friends. Their path is off the main axes of the park, but not deserted. People are staring. Most are walking rapidly away, but one or two are toying with the idea of calling the cops. Park security. Someone.

[Joss Lehrer] She shakes her head, and actually laughs softly. "Oh my. Aren't we big men..."

She doesn't move away, she doesn't seem inclined to stop it really, either. Maybe she just wants to see if Alex is really going to kiss Mickey..... nope, there's the punch. So predictable.

[Nessa] Accessories to a crime.
Again. Another crime.
Nessa smirks a little, in the way one reasonably secure in oneself might do, as she understands the situation (She thinks). IS wrong.
The security fails as she then stares at Heckles, shocked as he threatens to KILL Liadan, for a full second before she reacts. "Da, Go now!" The order to Liadan, order, suggestion, not-so-vague recommendation? Agreement to go someplace else?
It's all that and more, as she steps between Liadan and the asshole, either running with her or stopping to defend her. The asshole with the split lip.
Nessa as a meat shield will probably last a good second or three, but it might get time.

[Heckles the Wyrm] Mickey goes down. The cigarette gets mashed, lost in a puddle, and for a moment it looks like Mickey might keep his balance, might somehow pull some sort of backbending balancing manuever that will allow him to keep his feet, but - no. He falls down in a cascading series of angles, all elbows and knees and shoulder blades, down on his ass, back hitting the bench from which he'd arisen. Legs kicked out before him again, one arm lying along the seat of the bench.

Mickey blinks once, twice, trying to blink away the flashes of light. Works his jaw, coils of dark, greasy hair hanging before his vulpine face. Shifts his weight on his ass so as to be a little more comfortable, and then looks back up at where Alexander stands.

"Dude," he complains, "Dude." A pause, and then he hauls himself up to his feet. It's a shaky process. Casts around, finds the pack of cigarettes. Picks it up, peers inside where oily puddle water has gotten in and soured the mash. Throws it aside, annoyed. Wipes his forearm across his face, smearing the blood across his chin. "I got to give it to your mama. She taught you how to swing." Reaching back he flips the collar of his jacket up against his bare neck, and smiles. Begins to approach again.

"Anybody ever told you how much you look like a stud stallion? All that muscle. That soft brown hair. That nervous energy."

Closer.

"I gotta admit, I'm excited. What's going to happen next? What are you gonna do?"

[Joss Lehrer] He goes down, staggering against the bench he'd risen from, where she now resides. She lets a little squeal, falling into soft laughter as her hands grip the back of the bench on either side of her hips, keeping her balance...

gotta admit, she's with Mickey. What'll happen next?

[Liadan Whelan] Líadan quirks a brow at the woman with the Russian accent. The scuffle is a few paces behind them. Lee can hear the sound of a fist pounding into a face, and is fairly certain she'll hear the sound of footsteps coming after her if they do. Still, curiosity grips her, and she looks over her shoulder.

Alexander punches Mickey yet again. Lee winces when she sees it.

Oh my. Aren't we big men...

Clearly the fight is drawing a crowd. A pretty girl sits perched on the bench Mickey vacated, hair falling in long dreads down her back. There are piercings in her lip, and she looks very punk, but her clothing is more of a hippy style. Ordinarily, she would have taken Nessa's suggestion and simply walked away, leaving Alex to get himself out of this scuffle on his own.

But Líadan is a photographer. She likes to wander Grant Park taking pictures of whatever interesting people or things she finds. And the girl perched on the back of the bench is clearly interesting to the eye.

Jamming her hands into the pockets of her short denim shorts, Lee strolls around the fighters as if they don't exist. She sits on the bench in front of the girl so that her feet are by Lee's shoulder, lounges back. “Kinda makes you wish you had popcorn, huh?” She tips her head back, looks up at the girl, and smiles.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander's fist balls up like he wants to throw another punch. Then he loosens it. And falls back a step.

"Jesus Christ." He's somewhere between unnerved, pissed off, exasperated, bewildered. Who the hell picks a fight without fighting back? Who the hell keeps coming back for more? Alexander doesn't get it. "What the fuck is wrong with you, man?"

[Nessa] Rough.
Nessa blinks; she is on edge now, frowns as violence roils around her. Her breath quickens slightly as she joins the women, her balance poised for fast, sudden movements, a deer about to spring away from predators, or perhaps a predator about to attack. There's an edge there, and she's on it.
With the women, she joins the eons old practice of watching large aggressive males aggress.

[Joss Lehrer] She smiles so easily, it's a shock to most when they find out who - no, what - she is. She turns the power of that grin on Laidan as she comes near, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth, and possibly even glee before they flick back to the very one-sided fight.

She is sitting on the back of the bench, her feet on the seat near Lee's ass, her knees at her shoulder as the other woman suggests popcorn. "Ooooh, that'd be nice. They'd probably spill it though, then we'd be sad."

Though she looks as if she is very rarely sad.

[Heckles the Wyrm] Mickey stops advancing, the lowering of Alexander's hands signalling an end to the festivities, his interest in the man. He pats the pockets of his jacket absent mindedly as if searching for cigarettes, and then stops, remembering. They're on the grass, some three yards away.

Something goes out from him, and he straightens his back, tilts his head and pulls the hair out of his face, finger combing it to the nape of his neck, and then palms the blood from his face. Finally his eyes focus on Alexander again, and he shakes his head.

"Yeah, good question." He pulls his jacket closer about his narrow chest, suddenly feeling the chill in the air, and begins to walk away, past Alexander, and off along the path, squinting through the haze.

[Nessa] "Nyet. We borrow wallets, remove cost of hotdogs and go find vendor in park. Spilling popcorn is serious, expensive crime."
She is not quite serene, but aims for something similar, somethign to hide the sense of impending doom that was growing as the new guy just takes and takes and takes and doesn't seem to fucking care.
When he turns to go, she offers a faint, faint sigh, audible to some perhaps.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander watches him go. There's blood on his knuckles from the second time his fist connected with Mickey's face. He wipes it off on his shorts, half-conscious of this action himself. His shorts are red too, loose: basketball shorts. The blood disappears into the mesh, a darker stain.

Then he looks at the three women gathered at the bench. His expression is easy enough to read. It's a clear what the fuck just happened here?

But just to make it easier, he says it aloud a second later: "What the fuck just happened here?"

[Liadan Whelan] Lee sits with one arm across the back of the bench. If she hadn't sat down right next to Joss's knees, it's likely both arms would be outstretched. Her legs are crossed. She is the very picture of relaxation.

She tilts her head and looks at him, and shrugs a shoulder.

“I dunno, but I'm glad I didn't get popcorn. That was actually pretty pathetic.”

[Joss Lehrer] Mickey walks away, and she blinks, laughing softly. "Well, wasn't that interesting..."

She shakes her head, dreadlocks sliding over her shoulders only to be pushed back once again to fall heavily against her back.

[Nessa] Nessa is silent in regards to the perplexed (light word) demand, though she peruses Alex now with her eyes, appraises, values, for his worth is hard to determine from what had just occured.
Life is strange, sometimes.
"Do you all know each other?" All, those gathered, she indicates with a flick of a three-fingered hand. A few have gone missing, the loss sewn up rather roughly. If she is married, there is no ring, nor ring finger, to tell the story.

[Alexander Vaughn] "I don't know Dreads." Alexander's answer is halfhearted. He keeps looking after Mickey. Up until just now, he'd thought Liadan throwing computers at him was the strangest thing to happen to him in this city.

[Liadan Whelan] With the 'fight' over, the crowd disperses. Pedestrians and tourists go back about the business of being pedestrians and tourists. The sun is setting, and Lee is about a thirty minute walk from her apartment.

She pushes herself up off the bench, laces her fingers behind her, and stretches. Sighs.

“I think the only one here I haven't met is you.” Líadan reaches into her back pocket and pulls out something that looks like a very small, very thin wallet, just big enough for an ID and, apparently, business cards. She plucks one out, folds the wallet closed and returns it to her pocket.

She holds the business card out to Joss. “My name's Líadan Whelan. I'm a photographer for FASHION magazine. Give me a call if you ever want to let me take your picture.” And she smiles.

And Asshole finally knows Babydoll's full name and occupation. Lee thinks that's just fan-fucking-tastic.

[Joss Lehrer] "Joss" she corrects, with an easy smile as she sits up and rests her hands on the bench by her hips, shoulders hunching up in a stretch/shrug briefly before relaxing again. "Joss Lehrer."

Now that they're not quite so occupied with the impending beatdown that never was, they may recognize the tightly coiled sense of rage that clings to her, like the ultra fine strands of hair escaped from her dreads cling to her cheek, her neck, her sweater until she pushes it back from her face once more. Or not. She seems unconcerned either way.

A pause... "I think I saw you two..." Lee and Alex "... heading into a booktore the other night..."

She takes the card, and laughs softly, delightedly. "Why would you want to take pictures of me?" She's average - height, weight, looks... only a few things that make her stand out - dress, dreads, details - piercings and an as yet unseen tatto.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Alexander." Joss reminds him of the disastrous bookstore event. "Yeeah. I don't wanna talk about that."

[Liadan Whelan] "Yeah," Lee smiles. "Turns out bookstores aren't really all that interesting after hours. And I freelance for FASHION." And ELLE, and, rarely, COSMO and a bunch of other miscellaneous fashion magazines. "Your style is unique, but I'm sure I could slide you in somewhere. Mostly, though, I'd work with you under the Star Seed name, which is all me."

[Nessa] Joss is not at all hard to be around, draws the eye and a little of heart. There is a shadowlord smile, hints of real pleasure.
"Nessa. I'm friend of Lonna's. Good to meet you." The woman doesn't show signs of recognizing Joss, but Alex and Liadan, they are familiar enough. "Alexandr, when you have free moment, I would like to speak with you about other night, in that ahh fight."
It's a serious request, her eyes and expression solemn as she watches the man.

[Joss Lehrer] She laughs as Laidan suggests she might fit somewhere in a FASHION magazine, but it's not dismissive, but rather one of slight amusement, of delight even. "Well, I don't know how unique I am, but thank you all the same. Maybe I will."

She tuck the card into her pocket, and Nessa says she's a friend of Lonna and Joss tips her head slightly... thinking... unsure if she's actually met a Lonna or not. Either she places their meeting, or decides it doesn't matter as she shurgs her shoulders with a smile. "A pleasure." Presumably this includes Alex as well.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander turns his head. He eyes Nessa for a while. Then he shrugs. "I got all the time in the world now. Talk away."

[Heckles the Wyrm] (thanks for the rp, guys!)
to Alexander Vaughn, Joss Lehrer, Liadan Whelan, Nessa

[Liadan Whelan] “Definitely.” This is said to Joss with a smile and a dip of the head. Lee turns to Alex, and there's an edge to the smile.

“Don't worry about the other night. We're cool.” And she punches him in the shoulder, not with all her strength so it likely feels like a baby tap to Alex. But there's a sting to it, just enough to suggest that maybe he should worry about the other night. Maybe they were not cool.

[Nessa] She watches him right back, even and perhaps a little piercing, as if she could see right into him, as if she was.
"Sensitive conversation. Involves who those men were, and man in alley." Her gaze flicks to Joss, whom she doesn't know, then to Alex, in the old, 'can she be trusted?' sort of interrogatory look.
Mind, no one can truly be trusted.
But still. Trusted-ish, maybe.
If Alex isn't sure, then the Shadowlord is quite content to walk off a little ways apart, though the temperature is dropping and wihtout the running and burning of energy, the air is chilly, on the wet pink tank, her mostly bare legs.

[Joss Lehrer] She arches a brow slightly, as Nessa goes cagey, though it doesn't deminish her smile at all - maybe nothing does. [Except an idiot Fenrir she wouldn't mind hurting, but let's not talk about that, hm?] Or if it does, maybe that's when there's cause to worry.

Either way, she doesn't seem inclined to talk about the bookstore, that Alex doesn't want too. It's none of her business really, other then the fact she knew one of the people involved. She's not a clue what Nessa's talking about, but doesn't set her off by demanding to know.

Nor does she leave. Quite comfy, this bench.

[Nessa] ( need to go to bed.)
to Alexander Vaughn, Joss Lehrer, Liadan Whelan

[Nessa] (ok. SOrry, but i hvae to go to bed. Have to get up early. Take care guys, Nessa makes plans to talk to Alex about it in the Brotherhood anothe rday.)
to Alexander Vaughn, Joss Lehrer, Liadan Whelan

[Liadan Whelan] [I'm guessing the action picked up in Jamie's ST scene. We might be waiting for a while.]

[Joss Lehrer] (seems like it. *L*)

[Alexander Vaughn] (shit guys, i am SO SORRY.)

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander, after a moment's consideration, walks off to talk with Nessa.

As he passes Liadan she socks him on the shoulder. She says they're cool. He glances at his shoulder, her fist, her face. The snort he gives is not wholly convinced.

(i'm gonna fade alex out here cuz i'm doing a shit job at MTing. i'm really sorry, guys. thanks for the RP!)

[Liadan Whelan] Alex looked her up and down, and left to speak with Nessa.

Lee waves goodbye to Joss and jogs home.

[Liadan Whelan] [g'night and thanks for the RP!]