Ornature

[Michael Carroll] He chuckles and shakes his head, turning to face Imogen across the marbled flooring. "You would think so, wouldn't you just? But the Lady Carroll must have her accolades, even if an ocean seperates her from the voices that praise. And as I am her only child, the burden o' securing said praise falls on my shoulders."

The pacing resumes, far more slowly now as he takes his hands from his pocket to clasp them behind his back. "You told me once that you don't care for familial ties. If yours are anything like mine, I can't blame you one bit. How is the business o' dead people today? Anything o' interest?"

[Imogen] He suggests a reason she might be avoiding family, and Imogen merely smirks, turning back to the glass. "I daresay," she says, which is an answer which means precisely nothing, neither confirming nor refuting his assumption.

He asks her about how her day has been - has anything of interest come up. "Interest fer you?" she asks, rhetorically, answering the question herself. "No. Medically interesting? I performed an autopsy on a child wi' situs invertus." A flick of a glance toward him.

"His organs were reversed, in other words."

[Michael Carroll] His eyes widen, and once again he stops in his tracks to face her. "Reversed? You mean they were on the wrong side of his body?"

[Imogen] She nods, slightly, her thumbs hooking into the loops of her slacks, sharing space with her thin belt. "Heart on the right, liver and gall-bladder on the left, stomach on the right et cetera, yes."

[Michael Carroll] Now he moves to stand beside her, arms crossing over his chest as he stares through the thick glass at the floating jellyfish beyond. The dim lighting within the tank illuminates his face with a greenish glow that shifts and pulses as the water moves ceaselessly. "Is that what caused him to die? It seems like other than being a medical anomaly, that sort o' condition would be relatively benign."

[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly, "There are some instances o' congenital heart defects, but primarily, the condition he had was not fatal. Complicates treatment though, if the doctors are unaware in an emergency situation. As it was in this case."

As she speaks, she watches the moon jellies as they float within their container. It is a sort of water-dance, slow and unending.

[Fiona Rogers] ooc: Sooooo where are y'all?

[Michael Carroll] "Oh."

The expression isn't dismissive, though Michael doesn't raise the subject of the unfortunate boy anymore. Instead he reaches up and places the tip of his finger on the glass, only inches from a sign specifically asking that patrons do not touch the glass. Slowly he traces invisible lines along the tank, connecting points that only he can see. "There are days I wish I had never come to this city. The...others here. They do things much differently than what I'm used to. I suppose that's what I came for, but it really shows me how far from home I am."

His eyes never leave the tank, and his voice is so quiet it could be coming from across a great distance. Maybe he's not even speaking to her.

[Michael Carroll] ((Looking at jellyfish! in a nearly empty aquarium!))

[Imogen] Her eyes close briefly - it's a blink really, but one that lasts microseconds longer than it should have, punctuated by a contraction of her brow. The contraction smooths, her eyes open.

"Welcome to America," she says, her voice flat, which goes beyond it's normal restraint.

[Fiona Rogers] It's mid-afternoon on a school day, and the educational quadrant of Grant Park is saying farewell to the yellow school buses which bring them children to educate (children who run riot [who giggle, and laugh, and bite freedom and swallow it whole]). There is one yellow bus, not in front of the aquarium, which is leaving just now, and the chaperones did not headcount very well because out of the seventy four children who went on the field trip there are only seventy two children actually squabbling and shouting and staring out the window and throwing things actually on the buses.

Imogen and Michael are looking at the moon-jellies, are where it is quiet, hallowed, lit as if by sealight. There is a hush in places like these, in the quieter corners, only broken by a distant shout, the squeak of sneakers against polished floor, noise in the gift shop. The (young [very]) girl is walking down a hall into the room Imogen and Michael fill and she is reading a timeline poster plastered on a wall, reaching out to thumb a pamphlet out of a sconce on the wall, then rolling it into a spyglass cylinder. She has no purebreed. She has not too many distinguishing features at all, really, except for an oversized hoodie, a hood pulled up over her flyaway [wistfully] waving hair. Her sneakers catch on a bump on the floor, and she jumps up and to the side like a startled cat (that sneaker squeak), and then as if nothing happened at all, just begins to wind around the cylinder-tank, looking through the glass at the distorted shape of People On The Other Side.

More than People, actually. People. Her forehead scrunches and she presses it against the glass, breath steaming, as she stares and tries to take their measure, pressing her palms against the glass. Her backpack starts to sag off of her shoulder.

[Michael Carroll] One of the luminous jellyfish floats slowly towards the Fianna as he stares into the tank. Quickly, before it can move away, Michael leans forward and fogs the glass with a hot blast of his breath. Fingers move deftly across the condensation, and in a split-second the jellyfish has a smiley face, glasses, horns and a beard. The image only lasts for a moment before the sea creature expands and then sharply contracts, propelling itself away from the indignity being forced upon it.

"Why is the child on the other side o' the glass trying to push her way through?" The question comes from nowhere, and is only explained by a simple gesture at Fiona's glass-shaped pig-face staring from the other side of the large tank.

[Roman Turner] Boots softly scuffed against the floor in a faint echo through the little oddly lighted tunnel from one larger room to the next. Fish swam up both sides of the tunnel and over the top, it was like walking in a big tube through a giant fish tank. The light here wavered, making odd designs on clothing and face as the light filtered through the water and the movement of fish momentarily altered it's direction. His upper face was cast in deep shadow created by the brim of a buff Stetson. His hands were tucked in the back pockets of jeans so dark and new, stiffly pressed they looked like they could stand on their own. A jean jacket hung open, the front pulled open with the hands in the back pockets posture, exposing a neatly pressed Western cut shirt in cream and rust.

"I'll be hanged, who would of thought."

Mused softly.

[Imogen] The moment is broken - and Imogen shakes it off metaphorically, leaning forward only slightly to narrow her eyes at the glass.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she says, straightening, almost dismissively. Unlike Michael she does nothing for the pleasure of the younger girl, merely noting her existence, evaluating her threat-level (green, so far).

"She's likely not to manage it though," she observes. "At least not like that."

[Imogen] (eating dinner!)

[Michael Carroll] ((Same actually! Gonna be slow!))

[Michael Carroll] ((Err...slower))

[Fiona Rogers] Even through the distortion of water, of drifting, boneless animals (who glow [they do]), it's hard to mistake Fiona's eyes for anything but huge. The kind of eyes she probably uses to stare at people solemnly with until they get uncomfortable or/and crack a joke or feel the need to make some comment. Michael's voice carries. So does Roman's. And Imogen's. The two Fianna (People) are looking back at Fiona, and she executes a maneuver in which she pulls back from the glass, then leans forward again, but miscalculates the distance from the glass, and bonks her head. She swallows any sound this might draw from her, ducking down a little too suddenly to just be tying her shoes. Roman's got that air of heroes in his carriage, too, muted though it is, and Fiona's heart is suddenly pounding, and her mouth is suddenly dry, and she hugs her knees there on the floor, trying to figure out what to do.

After a tense second, she rubs her nose with her sleeve, and then stands up. This is what she says to Roman, circling around the tank to get closer to Imogen and Michael: "Hi uhm. Hi. Sir. Hat sir. Sir with hat. Uhm, shit. I mean, fuck - no, I mean - ugh." Her face is pink. Very pink. "Sorry. I just meant to say hi. But without sounding so lame. But I sound lame. And I'm not. I mean, I'm very fit. Shit, I sound - I'm - I will - ack."

[Roman Turner] He paused with a mixture of expressions crossing his face with the babble that spilled out of the girl. Confusion was the biggest emotion before a huge smile spread cross his face, crinkling the corners of gray-blue eyes slightly.

"Well howdy. Do ya kiss your momma with that mouth? I ain't never heard so much spill out so fast since my cousin got caught sneaking in the winda in the middle of the night after skinny dippin in the neighbor's pond."

His accent was what many folk in the city would call a twang

[Fiona Rogers] Fiona bites the inside of her lip. Her lips are chapped, but prettily shaped, and she worries at a skintag, gnawing until -- oh, now her tongue tastes of copper, and her lip is bleeding, just enough for color. She presses her lips together, then lifts her eyes to Roman's face, all studious. He's smiling, and that draws a smile in response from Fiona, something that is utterly shy and quite unaffectedly hopeful. "Noooo," and here, she rolls her eyes, pulling on her hoodie. "My mom doesn't like me to kiss her. She says kissings bourgeoisie. And she'd like, I try uhm, I'm trying not to curse so much, because it is making serious dents in my allowance, and uhm, I can't really work, you know, 'cause. Well, and uhm. I just, I don't know, so I guess: no, I do not kiss my momma with this mouth." The smile becomes a grin, mischievous. "I try not to talk too much around her. It is safer. Way. I'm Fiona." With her name said, she darts a quick glance toward Imogen and Michael again, then back to Roman, and the smile and grin disappear (dissipate [foam on the shore]), replaced by hesitation.

[Roman Turner] "Well howdy Miss Fiona. Mighty pleased ta meet ya. I'm Roman, Roman Turner. I ain't sure what kissing bourboneese is, sounds like maybe a drinkin problem. Ya a local gal?"

He followed her look through the water of the tank and did a double take.

"Well boy howdy, I think I see a Mermaid."

[Michael Carroll] Michael watches curiously as Fiona seems to make an actual attempt at breaking through the glass, then collapses out of view. She has firmly secured his attention. With brow arched, he begins walking slowly around the edge of the exhibit. Eventually he rounds the large jellyfish habitat to spot the young girl babbling at a fellow No-Moon.

He smiles broadly, the Irish accent unmistakable as he trills and brogues his way through a simple question. "Shouldn't the two o' you truants be in school then?"

[Roman Turner] The voice got his attention instantly and the smile was returned with a bit of a wry one. "No sir, we're on a field trip. Ain't we?"

He nudged Fiona for support.

[Fiona Rogers] "I uhm, just moved here," Fiona says, very quietly. The aquarium might well swallow her voice. Drown it whole. Roman says he spies a mermaid, and Fiona looks down the glass, wide and wistful. Her voice is enthusiastic, though. "Oh! She does look like one. Or like, a Robin McKinley heroine, all fiery red hair and white skin. She's really pretty, like a Queen. I bet jellyfish would make good spies for a mermaid. Probably. Hello," she says, to a jellyfish, and she reaches out to touch the glass, her brow furrowing again. She sways, and then turns pink again (she blushes often, it seems), when Michael comes around, speaks to them with his Irish accent. The accent causes her to look absolutely delighted and she half-bounces in place. "HELLO." The delight stays -- like he is the best thing she has heard all day, and she's trying to keep the excitement down. (She is.) That was way too loud. It echoes. When Roman nudges her, she grins at him, "Yes totally. We're learning stuff. Way more awesome than algebra."

[Roman Turner] "Yeah, what she said. Way more awesome than algae bras."

He hadn't noticed anything familiar about Fiona yet, but Michael gave off all the little signs that had Roman teasing him.

"Are ya the tour guide?"

[Michael Carroll] "Learnin' how to create a public disturbance by shaking apart these fishtanks wi' your bouncin', girl." Despite the chiding in his voice, he continues to smile brightly for Fiona. His eyes lift slowly from the energetic young girl to Romans face, his expression cautious. "I'm more tourist than tour guide. I know you, from the gathering at the high school. Wasn't your school, was it? That'd be a serious lack o' school pride, fella."

[Roman Turner] "Truth be told? It weren't top on my list of brightest ideas being there like that." For a second he looked like he'd sucked a lemon and the expression came and went like a flash. "And no sir, weren't my school. Where I came from, we were raised more self contained, home schooled."

[Imogen] Imogen walks around the tank, considerably slower than Michael, taking longer to drag her interest over to the two teenagers currently standing in front of the older Garou.

The kinswoman is slight and the way she joins them speaks volumes - she does not quite join them - does not stand beside Michael, does not stand beside Roman but more adjacent to them all, able to keep them all in sight.

"Roman," she greets one, her gaze flicking briefly toward the girl, her eyes narrowing slightly. "H'lo."

[Roman Turner] "Howdy Miss Doctor Slaughter, Ma'am." The sudden smile he gave her was pure puppy love. Touching the tip of his hat as he greeted her and introduced Fiona.

"This here is Miss Fiona, like the Princess in Shrek. Only, I don't know if she turns big and green at night yet or not."

[Fiona Rogers] There is now: one boy her age with Unicorn's blood, one Fianna from Ireland she really, reallyreally, really wants to ask a question but manages to refrain with dignity and will, another Fianna who sounds like she's from across the pond and looks like a Queen, and Fiona. That's three people she doesn't know, and she's not quite sure what to do. For a confounded second she studies her toes again, listening to Michael and Roman, trying to parse this businesss about schools and highschools and, "You teach at a high school? My daddy's a principal." Even she seems to find this question inadequate, though, and she doesn't quite pull her eyes from her feet to ask it. The queen woman talked to you! The queen woman talked to you! Her heart is beating fast, again. "Whoa. Slaughter? That's your real name? Or did it earn it for something?" The wide eyes go right to Imogen's, and her shoulders are a little hunched -- self-protective. "Uh erm, not that that would mean it wasn't real, just uhm. Like is it your real DOCTOR name?"

Roman makes her smile again, bouncing a little in place, and she gives him a sidelong look, which she couples with a baring of her teeth [frisson (this is for play, but it COULD be for a real)] and a, "RAR. I am a name riddle and the name is something cool. And howly. Awoo." She makes claw fingers at him, and then ducks her head again. She is still smiling at being likened to a cartoon princess.

[Kora] God knows there are enough Garou in the aquarium today. Add one more: turning the corner from another display room. Tall, long-limbed, with pale blond hair, attractive, perhaps, but not pretty. A function of even features, sharp, well-defined bones beneath her face; strong cheeks and a strong jaw softened by the width of a curving mouth. Dressed in jeans tucked into black Doc Marten's, pale-blue cotton tunic underneath a gray University of Chicago hoodie, unzipped. Pregnant. Very pregnant, and alone today.

Strangers do not approach her, though. They don't crowd her, reminisce about their own children and grandchildren, offer the usual unsolicited advice. They most certainly do not ask if she's chosen a name, or try to touch her stomach. Instead: most step aside, especially parents with children, driving by an instinct they cannot name. At least it leaves her direct path free. Hands in the front pockets of her jeans, forearms framing her pregnant stomach, she ambles toward the small group, giving Roman a familiar bump as she joins them, bathed in the dappled blue light from the water. "Doc. Roman." Greetings, offered quietly. She arrives soon enough to hear Fiona's name too, and gives the girl a brief, sure once-over, then cuts a glance toward Michael. "Michael, yeah?" Confirming, though she needed. They were introduced one night change he challenged her packmate to a drinking contest. She doesn't forget names.

A glance back to Roman, then. "Making friends, are you?" Then, a lifting look back to Fiona, frank and appraising, all in one.

[Imogen] Imogen regards Fiona with something resembling resignation.

"It's my real name, yes. Cousins don't earn names."

Clearly the kinswoman has worked out Fiona's blood, if only partway. Kora approaches, heavily pregnant, slightly slow moving, a little heavier in her weight, in the way she moves.

No one would dare say she waddles.

"Kora," the kinswoman greets her.

[Michael Carroll] He nods at the Fenrirs approach, offering a distracted. "Yeah. Well to see ya again, Kora." The standard honorific is carefully left off in consideration of the possibly mixed company. Much like Kora, Michaels attention is drawn entirely now to Fiona. The one piece here that hadn't quite fit in place. Every word from her causes his expression to switch from amusement to confusion and back again, but it's Imogens reference to "cousins" that turns the Irishman serious. He glances to the doctor curiously. "Is she?"

[Roman Turner] He was a good deal more demonstrative than many. Kora bumped him and he full turned to grasp her in a quick brotherly hug including a swift brush of his lips across her cheek. His smile was big when he released Kora. To him there was nothing prettier in the world than a woman carrying the future of their kind and this particular woman was as close as relationships could get between Garou other than blood shared, they were Pack.

"This here is Princess Fiona."

He introduced Fiona to Kora, nudging the girl closer.

"She's a bouncy as a kid what ate his entire Easter Basket's contents in one sitting."

[Imogen] "She is," answer the pure bred Fianna, evenly, without hesitation or misunderstanding.

[Fiona Rogers] "Slaughter. Wow." Fiona seems impressed. "That's cool. Like a name for an ax queen." Kora - Kora, with her status, clear as anything; at least as clear as the lineage of the two Fianna and Roman - Kora, pregnant and appraising, draws Fiona's eyes for only a second. Then, rather firmly, as if remembering her lost (heh?) dignity, Fiona refuses to look at Kora's face. Instead, she focuses on Kora's collarbones, and Fiona is Princess of Blushes, because the Blush is here to stay, it is shining through her eyebrows, it is even turning her neck pink. Roman calls her Princess Fiona again, and her smile widens a hair, and then snaps off like a light while her eyebrows draw together in sudden worry. "ButI'mnotreally. Cadbury eggs would be nice. Uhm, I didn't. Cousins earn," a pause. She swallows, and then says, "YesIdothinkwearerelatedbutyouguysaremoreinterestinglyrelatedtothefamilytreethanIam. Like, way. Uhmshould. I. Do you want more?" This question is asked more of Kora than the rest, and her voice has dropped to a Discreet Whisper. She sounds utterly miserable.

[Fiona Rogers] ooc: sorry all! I'ma be a little slow for a while. Making food! You can always assume Fiona's way too tonguetied to reply to questions if necessary (grin)

[Kora] Roman is a good deal more demonstrative than Kora. She gives him a familiar bump - heavier, rather more graceless for it - as she insinuates herself into the loose knot. He turns and hugs her and she is too gravid to step away from it, but she's stiff, awkward looking - every five feet and eleven inches of her Fenrir in that moment - her generous ease withdrawn behind that awkward sense of tolerance. Of things to be endured, like great aunts at Christmas time, their papery skin and talcum powder scent.

Then Roman releases her; she acknowledges Michael's nicety with a quiet "Cheers," lifting her chin in his direction, then glancing back at Fiona, taking in the overwhelming avalanche of words with a certain clear bemusement. "It's pretty public here, Fiona. I'll let you off the hook tonight, yeah? We'll do the official thing when we leave, or save it for some other night."

Then, a glance back at Imogen, a flare of her nostrils. The expression is subtle, a bit distant. "Some do, Doc." Watchful, maybe, though she goes no further with the thought. Instead, a more general question, wry - "Tell me where wasn't a murder at the aquarium."

[Kora] (Add - )

"Because this is an insane coincidence."

[Imogen] Imogen's gaze is brief and blue when Kora mentions that some do, her expression controlled and even. Unrevealing. She does not answer, but answers the next, a question, wry.

"If it were a murder, I'd not be standin' here chatting wi' you lot, would I?" she asks, casting a glance to her watch.

"Insane coincidence it is, then. I'd best be off though."

[Roman Turner] "I don't know, ya might be casually talkin while watching for bits of flesh to float by in the tanks. I seen ya do some strange things."

Imogen mentioned leaving and Roman immediately gave Kora a look as he said.

"I'll walk her to her car. Wouldn't want one of them fish men to come take our Mermaid."

[Fiona Rogers] "Okay," she says, whispering. Fiona's sleeves are long. The hoodie is oversized, remember? Fiona pulls them, tugs them, awkward, until they're trailing over her fists, and then shoves them up her skinny wrists and touches the back of her hands to her cheeks, as though to cool them. Her lips part, and she half-closes her eyes, just -- content to listen. Just -- listening, although through those half-closed eyes, she's watching Imogen and Michael, half-anxious, half-testing, daydreaming, away with the fairies. And then, "UhmbyeDoctor - " a pause, and a half-giggle, dredging itself up " - Slaughter." She then says to Kora, "Anduhm. Hey. Is it - soon? That, I mean. You look f- uhm, you look soon."

[Kora] "Maybe you just finished covering it up," still wry, though Kora matches steadiness for steadiness. There's a different quality to her own stillness. She's not unrevealing, just reserved. The surface breaks for the edge of an easy smile near the end, though it goes a bit still as she flicks a glance at Roman. "Night doc. Roman."

Then Fiona, stretching out the already too-long sleeves of her hoodie, turns and asks her is it soon; Kora gives her a look, pale brows drawing close over her dark eyes, her confusion too clear. The lights from the tank swim across the surface of her gaze but do not illuminate the depths. "Is what - ?" It's Fiona's line of sight, though. The faint, suggestive way the younger creature drops her eyes to Kora's not-to-be-ignored (everyone ignore it) stomach, and her own eyes follow the look.

Dear world, she cannot see her toes.

Kora breathes out, a huff of breath. "Oh," like revelation. Her narrow shoulders twist in a fatalistic shrug. The waxing moon makes everything harder. Being in her skin; being in one place; stuck here between worlds, unable to access both. The restlessness mirrors the restlessness from before she knew what she was. Then she was free; now she's anchored.

" - yeah. It better be fucking soon," she goes on. She does not, it seems, have a swear jar, no matter how much Roman wanted to start one. I don't know when, though."

[Imogen] Imogen turns to talk, Roman walking beside her. As they walk toward the domed aquarium hallway, one imagines, they can hear Roman's voice as he says something - anything. And Imogen's more sedate reply. Within seconds, they are distorted by water, then a passing shark obscures them from view. Then, they are gone from sight, a corner turned.

(Thanks for the RP!)

[Fiona Rogers] ooc:No, thank YOU for letting me play with y'all!

[Roman Turner] ((Thank you guys! Bed time! ))

[Fiona Rogers] Then there were three. Michael, Kora, Fiona. Fiona begins knotting the ends of her sleeves, pulling them around each other into fanciful, dragonesque shapes, an expression of her nervous energy, and she directs her gaze up toward the ceiling of the aquarium. The room is so hushed; there isn't anyone yelling in the rest of the aquarium right now. There isn't a cluster of people around the sharks: staring in awe at an alien which scents by blood -- and never, ever stops. "Should we, uhm. Leave too?" A beat. And then, "This guy back home. He was older, uhm, and I. Er, he told me that, uhm, you - that because you can't STRETCH out like," here, a meaningful look, "like you wanna, when you're, like. Uhm, you know. The way you are. That girls never got pregnant and it was okay." She smiles, "But I knew he was being stupid. I still have never actually met someone who was pregnant." A pause, a frown. "Well, not someone with flesh that wasn't for eating."

[Kora] "Yeah," Kora affirms, quiet too. Not the way Fiona is quiet, swallowing her sleeves into strange new shapes, coming up with big expressions and big eyes and big - words - all allusive, the meaning perfectly clear. "Let's go." Another glance back at the fish tank, then. Gods only know why she's here today, prowling the blue-bathed audience chambers, past the captive sea animals, flowering in their narrowly defined tanks, perfectly authentic reproductions of their ocean homes, except for the bounding glass.

She walks, a look of invitation for Michael if he wishes to join them, but just that. "Of course girls get pregnant. How else do you think we have another generation?" Voice low, like she's sharing a confidence then, "It's not easy, though. If you come from the country, most probably retreated from community life for a while. It's not the same in a place like this."

[Fiona Rogers] When Michael takes his leave, rather than staying, Fiona waves to him, and says to Kora -- her delight still clear: "He's Irish. I wish," envy, thy name is Fiona, thy shape is a teenage girl's, "I wish I had that kind of voice. I mean then. I could just. It's so cool." And: she and Kora are walking, and Fiona is very careful of the space she gives the pregnant Fenrir, is very careful of her body language, none of which is threatening, much of which is awkward. She stops before they've quite left the jellyfish tank room and gazes at the jellyfish, thoughtful, and then waves to them. And then, then then, back to Kora, "Do you. Know who. When your time comes. Who's going to? I could try, I mean. I should know."

[Kora] "If you meet Patrick," Kora cautions while they walk, pausing to glance back at the jellyfish tank, dropping her gaze back to Fiona as the Fiann waves to the invertebrates. "Don't call him Irish, alright? He's Welsh. Big on Welsh pride. Refuses to use any words with vowels other than Y," the last is solemn, as if she were just imparting the truth. She doesn't wait long for Fiona to finish her wave, though, continuing with a chin lifted back at the tank full as they start walking again. Kora, long-legged, paces as if she had someplace to be. As if she had not wandered into the aquarium today because of her enforced idleness. Because she literally has nothing else to do.

"You think they can see you?" she queries, then swallows nearly a full laugh, draws the whole breath of it in as if she were choking on it. Expels a breath, all at once. "Oh, - no, I don't know. And I think - I think - I'd like someone who's done it before. Since it'll be my first time, too. Maybe if you find an even more pregnant woman, though, and convince her - "

[Fiona Rogers] "I'm offering them respect, uhm, though it isn't in their custom and they may not care, I, I guess I PROBABLY won't like, make friends with their others," Fiona says, unwontedly serious, a keen glance at the end, sidelong, edging into something touched by anxiety. But then -- Fiona is a whimsical creature. That much is obvious to anybody who's spent any time with her at all. Given to fancy, something of a geek, and even humans often just put her into the box labelled Weird. "But uhm. I try to be respectful. When it is not bellyshowing. And when it is. And stuff, like. Argh," misery, again. "I just can't. Blah."

Pause. And she heaves a biiiiiiiig sigh, and then giggles, giggles helplessly. Fiona's giggles are breathy, not very high-pitched, but lilting and infectious and quiet, like she's trying to get water into a water balloon and it's not WORKING, so it's splashing everywhere. "PATRICK," she says, loudly, loudly. "He's AWESOME. And I - oh man, I - I did not - I could have been way - but it's okay. I reallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreally like Patrick. I will only call him Irish if. If I .. if I am ... if there is a reason," she beams at Kora. "He said I should find his - uhm. His," and her voice drops low, to an almost whisper, "pack. 'Cause. He likes me. I think. And I was like that's cool oh man how nice and he was like I'm not saying anything for real but you should meet them and I was like I totallyget it I mean, I really do, but you are being the best head guy ever, and I really like him."

She giggles, again. "If I find another pregnant woman before you give birth I will let you know. Can I maybe be there in case I don't? With someone more experienced? Just so I can - can know? I have, uhm. I mean, I have helped - there - I'm not very good at - there was a time. Which I can tell you about, but it was totally different," a pause. The word appears: "Biology!"

[Kora] "I'm his leader, yeah?" Kora offers, allusive, her curving mouth opening wider, the bemusement lifting some of the restlessness from her, some of the solemnity. It shines in her eyes, sheens across the surface, and even though that quicksilver smile on her mobile mouth disappears as quickly as jellyfish change directions, surging through the water, it lingers underneath in the finer planes of her face - a certain smiling tension about her eyes, a certain awareness, a certain twist to her mouth. "I'll show you our clubhouse, so you'll know where to come. How's that?"

Then, a supple flare of her nostrils - her eyes closed - and amusement is still predominant. Cuts the giggling girl a dark-eyed look, bemusement lingering in her eyes. "I'll think about it, okay? Though I'm not sure I want to be a training project. It's serious to me, personal? I don't think I've talked about it this much. Ever." Then she turns around, a last glimpse of the jelly tank, the girl raising her hand, respectful. " - but I'll consider it. Cool?"

[Fiona Rogers] Fiona gives Kora an aghast look. Here's the packleader Patrick told her about, and clearly, she, Fiona, has been a total dumbass this entire time, even compared to the unfortunate introduction at the caern which was how she and Patrick met. There's much of horror in that look. Much, much of horror. How's she going to impress Kora if she's not talking properly and probably sounding like a stupid little girl? Fiona closes her eyes, and her shoulders slump, absolutely crushed.

Still. She says, mustering some dignity, in a veryvery quiet voice, "I would like that. And please, ma'am, I uhm. I'm not silly." A pause. And then, flinging herself onto the other topic, words hasty, tripping over themselves in the eagerness to begin, "Cool. I mean, uhm. Okay, and fair and stuff. Just, I get that it's serious - okay? And, hm. I mean, I'm connected, so I could ask some of my friends if they know how, and have them step up. If there's an emergency, or something. But if cats can do it on their own - I don't - you probably - well, of course you'll be fine."

Miesry, again. "Do you want to talk about something else now? I don't want to overstep - uhm. To like, if it's not okay."

[Kora] Fiona assures Kora that she's not silly. It's solemn, and quiet. They're still in the aquarium, though it is hushed here, some interval place, some corridor underneath the shark tank - bluelit and brilliant. And Kora ignores the misery and horror, the slumping shoulders, the deepening blush. She keeps walking. Waddling.

"I know you're not." Kora says; it's bracing rather than reassuring. Silly, she means. "I'll think more on it when it's closer to the time, yeah? And why don't you tell me where you came from before you came here? When we get outta here, I'll tell you a story about Chicago in exchange."