[Imogen] Her phone vibrates slowly making its way off the balcony chair's armrest. She is seated there, her hair damp from a shower, her body hidden by a terry cloth robe, her skin chilled by the outdoors, her stomach warmed by a fresh swallow of scotch.
She looks down at it a moment, before leaning forward to set down her cigarette, her tumbler still in hand as she pushes a button to activate the receiver.
"Slaughter," she says, answering an unfamiliar number with a professional reply. Her eyes trial to the view from her balcony, bright city lights, Chicago's familiar buildings.
[Cell] "Imogen - " first his voice is far away, speaker phone. Then, abruptly, it is as close as if his mouth were against her ear. In between, she will hear the clatter plastic against metal or god knows what as he reaches for the handset and tucks it against his shoulder. " - hey. It's JB. Question."
There's music in the background, which fades when he picks up the phone.
"I had some visitors tonight. Want to know if one of them is what they said she is." There's a certain tension in his voice, a hint of irritation, though that is thinned by wires and distance. "Though you might be able to help."
[Imogen] There is a pause on the other side of the phone, filled with ambient sounds. He can hear the air whistle, the far away sounds of traffic. He knows she is outside.
Imogen's jaw draws briefly tight, then loosens as she lifts a hand to her hair, pushing the heavy, damp weight back from her face, over her shoulders.
"Alright," she says. "Go ahead."
[Cell] "A girl named Rory. Red hair, pale skin." He begins, then closes his eyes. The fucking music box is on is desk, the note somewhere. "Something's wrong with her, too. Some mental thing."
"I don't know any other names for her. After, though, I got a note. From The Bogeymen., right?"
There's a hint of disbelief there. Gods only know what leads Garou to pick such bizarre names for themselves. Somewhere in the background, a door clicks shut.
[Imogen] A pause. "Spoonerism," she says, "She speaks in spoonerisms. Tends t'mix up sounds right? Says 'I'm hery vappy' not 'I'm very happy', fer example.
"She's Garou," she says, "Fianna, I believe, though I'm not familiar wi' what the 'Bogeymen' are. I don't much mind pack names.
"Why?"
[Cell] "Yeah, that's it - " he confirm, distant before his voice shifts back to the receiver, his tone quiet, confidential. Even with the pantry door shut, the sounds of the kitchen. "Feels like a - like a serial killer, acts like a Catholic school-girl in a - well, in a movie." He tells he, thinking better of saying in a fucking porno to Imogen, even over the phone. "And acts like Rain Man - or like she's austic or schizophrenic or something. Just sat there half-hiding all night. Kept insisting she would work for me. Then snuck into the kitchen last night and left a fucking music box sitting on my counter with a goddamn note for my - " Maybe his resolution not to curse has deserted him.
Maybe he just wanted to vent. " - baker to find, bright and early this morning. I just - " he stops, pauses, arrests the deluge. "Listen, sorry. I didn't mean to unload. Just wanted to make sure she was who they said she was. Not something - else.
"Given the rest."
She looks down at it a moment, before leaning forward to set down her cigarette, her tumbler still in hand as she pushes a button to activate the receiver.
"Slaughter," she says, answering an unfamiliar number with a professional reply. Her eyes trial to the view from her balcony, bright city lights, Chicago's familiar buildings.
[Cell] "Imogen - " first his voice is far away, speaker phone. Then, abruptly, it is as close as if his mouth were against her ear. In between, she will hear the clatter plastic against metal or god knows what as he reaches for the handset and tucks it against his shoulder. " - hey. It's JB. Question."
There's music in the background, which fades when he picks up the phone.
"I had some visitors tonight. Want to know if one of them is what they said she is." There's a certain tension in his voice, a hint of irritation, though that is thinned by wires and distance. "Though you might be able to help."
[Imogen] There is a pause on the other side of the phone, filled with ambient sounds. He can hear the air whistle, the far away sounds of traffic. He knows she is outside.
Imogen's jaw draws briefly tight, then loosens as she lifts a hand to her hair, pushing the heavy, damp weight back from her face, over her shoulders.
"Alright," she says. "Go ahead."
[Cell] "A girl named Rory. Red hair, pale skin." He begins, then closes his eyes. The fucking music box is on is desk, the note somewhere. "Something's wrong with her, too. Some mental thing."
"I don't know any other names for her. After, though, I got a note. From The Bogeymen., right?"
There's a hint of disbelief there. Gods only know what leads Garou to pick such bizarre names for themselves. Somewhere in the background, a door clicks shut.
[Imogen] A pause. "Spoonerism," she says, "She speaks in spoonerisms. Tends t'mix up sounds right? Says 'I'm hery vappy' not 'I'm very happy', fer example.
"She's Garou," she says, "Fianna, I believe, though I'm not familiar wi' what the 'Bogeymen' are. I don't much mind pack names.
"Why?"
[Cell] "Yeah, that's it - " he confirm, distant before his voice shifts back to the receiver, his tone quiet, confidential. Even with the pantry door shut, the sounds of the kitchen. "Feels like a - like a serial killer, acts like a Catholic school-girl in a - well, in a movie." He tells he, thinking better of saying in a fucking porno to Imogen, even over the phone. "And acts like Rain Man - or like she's austic or schizophrenic or something. Just sat there half-hiding all night. Kept insisting she would work for me. Then snuck into the kitchen last night and left a fucking music box sitting on my counter with a goddamn note for my - " Maybe his resolution not to curse has deserted him.
Maybe he just wanted to vent. " - baker to find, bright and early this morning. I just - " he stops, pauses, arrests the deluge. "Listen, sorry. I didn't mean to unload. Just wanted to make sure she was who they said she was. Not something - else.
"Given the rest."
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