Welcome Back (Your dreams were your ticket out)

[Charlie]

The smell of cigarette secondhand doesn't bother the young man's senses, or if it does he has the tact not to make a face or a comment as he approaches the bench. There's enough of a breeze that it carries the tendrils of smoke away rather than toward; there's always a breeze here, they being situated in the Midwest on one of the Great Lakes. It's not the same as being on the ocean, but it's as close as they're going to get this far inland. Charlie seems more awake than he has in the past, doesn't seem as though he's just barely clinging to his sanity tonight. He's not exactly as mellow as he's been in the past, but neither is he going to cause any bystanders to vacate the area just as quickly as they possibly can. There isn't much to tolerate. His Rage is laughable compared to some of the higher-ranked members of the Nation who frequent this park, hardly worth mentioning when he's standing next to his Alpha. It's not worth mentioning at all when one takes into consideration who it is who's claimed the redhead sitting on the bench. The gangly Theurge closes just enough distance between them so that he's standing just beyond arm's length, then sniffs as if to clear his sinuses and speaks first. "Hey, what's your name?"

[Imogen]

She takes a hit from her cigarette - turns her head to exhale. It's a bit of politeness, perhaps. Even with the wind going in another direction, she takes care not to blow it in his face. In either case, it is a gesture entirely without fanfare. If she is being polite, she take care not to show it too much. Tapping cigarette ash from the tip with a finger, she turns back. "Imogen Slaughter," she says simply, answering the question, likewise, without fanfare. "I got yer name from Ms. Walsh," she adds after a moment, relieving him of the need to make an introduction in return. The setting sun catches fire on her hair, glinting in the flames of red, the strands of blond, muting the faded undertones of oak. It is a glorious colour, really, all fire and sunset, burning and chaotic. Even pulled back as it is, swept from her face and held in place with a clip, several pins, it is impossible to entirely contain. Strands have fallen free to caress her pale cheekbone, to catch in the copper lashes of her eyes. She sweeps them back absently with a thumb before lowering her hand to set her cigarette between her lips again.

[Charlie]

She got his name from Ms. Walsh. It takes him a moment of squinting to put a face to the name that Imogen has just mentioned. If the fact that he hadn't asked her for her name the first, or second, or third, or fourth time that their paths had crossed ought to be some sort of indication of what the state of his mind is like. What sort of indication that is, exactly, is up for debate. Mackenzie hadn't offered up Charlie's tribe or auspice when she had answered whether she knew him, but he has the sometimes faraway expression of someone whose attention isn't always centered on what's going on around him. Most people peg him as a Theurge without too much difficulty. There's an otherworldliness about him that is as strong as some wolf-borns', as if he's just barely secured to this side of the Gauntlet. "Oh," he says, as he realizes who Ms. Walsh is. A pause, and then he parks himself on the bench beside the slight kinswoman. He smells like fresh sweat and wind. It isn't nearly as pungent as the smoke trailing off of Imogen's cigarette. "You know the guy who was playing the other night? He was pretty awesome."

[Imogen]

She moves over slightly to give the Fury room, lifting herself slightly to do so, protecting the fine linen of her slacks from any potential roughness in the wood. She taps ash ground-ward her eyes moving toward him as he speaks. Her mouth twists faintly. "Which one, th'one on bass?" At Charlie's (presumed) agreement, she inclines her head slightly, "Hm," the sound is meaningless, "he's quite th'player. Plays electric bass and piano, too." A pause, another drag before adds, almost off-hand, "Human, though."

[Charlie]

As Imogen gets herself settled so that the taller Theurge can have some room, he folds his hands up and wedges them between his knees. When asked if the 'guy' Charlie had meant was the one on bass he gives a short nod of his head, not wanting to interrupt or throw her off track, as though everyone is so easily distractible as he is. At the news that he's human, the metis makes a quiet noise of comprehension, something like an "Ohh," and lets his gaze wander out across the path in front of them. This time of night there are plenty of after-work joggers, a few students lounging now that classes are over for the day, and they are all of them human. "You know, I been lookin'," he says, after a moment, "and I can't find a piano to practice on. Back in Boston I'd play at one of the kinswomen's bars to like, make some money, but I'm not having that kinda luck here."

[Imogen]

Much like Charlie, Imogen watches the passers-by, her gaze pulled by a jogger or two, but for the most part, her attention is absent: half-assed people watching. She turns her head to exhale smoke before answering the Fury. "Yeh might try at Hill-House," she says. "They ha' all those charities, shelters and th'like. Perhaps one o' them has a piano in a common room tha' you can use." Her mouth twists slightly, a faded smirk, "Has the advantage o' bein' Kin-run as well."

[Charlie]

Hill House ought to be jogging his memory more than it actually is. It's not that it's an area of the city that he's spent a spectacular amount of time and energy looking into, but it's hardly on the fringes of their society: the Ms. Walsh that Imogen had mentioned had asked just a few months ago if Charlie knew anything about what channels she would need to go through to make a donation, and he hadn't much of a clue as to how to help her. If he read the newspapers he would know that she had managed to pull it off without much assistance, that her employer had made a rather sizable donation lately; but he doesn't read the newspapers. "I'll check them out," he says. "The last time I even looked at a piano it was in Tennessee, and that was like... I don't know, three or four moons ago. I think four. It's been a while."

[Imogen]

She balances her cigarette on the parking bench edge and reaches over, picking up her coffee cup to take a sip. "I imagine yer fingers are startin' t'twitch," she comments, absently. It's a mark of their shared talent, her understanding of this. "Try Hilll House," she recommends again. "If yeh ha' no luck, let me know and I'll ask Kris if he knows o' anywhere tha' homeless can play or something." Another sip of her coffee before she sets it down, adding with a glance, "Th'bass player." A few beats of silence, "Where did yeh play in Boston?"

[Boy]

The joggers were a normal feature in grant park. A fixture, even, at this time of the evening. They move pretty steadily and evenly in either direction. Only for some reason, at some point, the flow or runners near the bench currently occupied by Charlie and Imogen. And then the reason makes itself known. Boy comes trotting by. He wasn't jogging. He wasn't dressed for exercise and the stream of sweat pouring over his head, chest and back suggest that he's been at it for more than just an hour. He stops, hands clutching at his knees and head hanging low as he pants, trying hard to catch his breath.

[Charlie]

Where did he play in Boston. "This bar called Aurora," he says. "It's in the Back Bay, out by the university. One of my packmate's sisters owns it. It opened like... in 2001, I think." At that point, the Uktena packbrother of his tribemate moves past the bench. It seems Charlie isn't the only one who thinks that Grant Park is a good place to exercise. His attention is snared by Boy's presence, and when the teenager stops to catch his breath, he calls out to him. He hasn't seen him since the Moot. That was almost a month ago. "Hi, Boy."

[Imogen]

"Ah," she answers, a sound of acknowledgement more than anything. "After my time, then." Boy runs by - dressed as a pedestrian but not a jogger. Imogen watches him as the distance closes, her eyes resting upon him as he comes to a stop, bending over to catch his breath. Charlie addresses him as Boy and her eyes move slightly to the Fury who sits beside her before returning her gaze to the boy. The kinwoman, slight and purebred arches an eyebrow slightly at the newcomer, but does not offer much in the way of greeting.

[Boy]

As his attention suddenly turns to Charlie sweat whips in their direction as well, leaping from his greasy hair. That hair needs a washing and cutting. His shirt is grimy, though its almost hard to tell from the soaking perspiration. The look he gives Charlie is one of confusion. And then he looks around as if only now realizing where he was. He catches his breath, swallows, and stands up straight. "Oh." He says after a pause. "Hey. Charlie, right?"

[Charlie]

Boy looks confused as he looks at the metis. Their interactions thus far have been somewhat limited: they've smoked marijuana with Marcus, whereupon Charlie promptly fell asleep, and Charlie was recruited to intervene when the asshole from Room 4 was provoking Boy into beating the crap out of him. They hadn't spoken at the Moot, and were it not for the fact that the Uktena's name is somewhat novel, it's entirely possible that he wouldn't have thought to use it when greeting the kid. "Right," he says. Charlie is soaked in sweat of his own, though he at least appears to have been dressed for it. He's wearing gym shoes, knee-length shorts and a gray t-shirt that's seen better days.

[Imogen]

Imogen picks up her cigarette again from the table's edge, fitting it between her lips and leaving it there as she picks up her closed file folder, leaning down on the bench to fit the folder between the open lips of her leather brief case. She zips it shut, retrieving her cigarette as she straightens, exhaling smoke away from both Boy and Charlie. For the moment, she seems content for them to continue their greetings.

[Boy]

He nods, sweat dripping off his brow, off his entire body. There's a slowly growing wet spot where he's standing. "Good. Good. Am I...I mean. This is Grant Park right?"

[Imogen]

Imogen's gaze rests upon Uktena for several seconds. "You are." A pause, "Are you -" the precise, polite word escapes her - "lost?"

[Charlie]

The question doesn't appear to be a simple one. The Theurge stops and thinks, his brow furrowing as he attempts to remember what name had been plastered on the sign as he trotted into the tourist conglomeration the better part of an hour ago. When he comes up with an answer, Charlie sits up straighter and unknits his fingers. Imogen beats him to it, though, and he lets her question Boy without interrupting.

[Boy]

"No." He says, and it sounds full of relief. His knees dip, and then he's falling backward, landing on his ass and planting his hands down behind him to support his recline. "Not anymore. What day is it?"

[Charlie]

Boy drops himself on the ground, and when he asks what day it is, Charlie tears his gaze away from the Uktena to look at the kinswoman sharing the bench with him. It would appear he has no idea, either.

[Imogen]

"It's Thursday," says the kinwoman without thinking about it. One imagines that she is more in-tune with such human things - the day of the week, the month, the year. They matter more for her world than for theirs. Her eyebrow arches slightly. "Alright, are you?"

[Boy]

"Thursday. Guess that's not bad. Alright? Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Just need to rest a bit." He sighs and takes off one of his shoes, sticking his hand in and shaking his head at the finger that wiggles out of the toe. "I've been away. Out there, y'know?"

[Charlie]

A human might have offered Boy his place on the bench, the reasoning being that a bench is more civilized and potentially comfortable than parking oneself on the dirty concrete that millions of footfalls touch in a year. Were not for the fact that Charlie hasn't got much in the way of social conditioning telling him to offer his seat to someone more exhausted or disoriented than he is, the metis might have offered the homid-born his place. One has to figure that if Boy had wanted the bench that badly he could have ordered the metis off of it and expected compliance. The Uktena is examining the state of his shoes, and Charlie seems to comprehend the state of being out there better than he understood what day it is or where they're located. "Were you looking for something?" he asks. Something strange happens a moment later, something that Boy has witnessed happening once before but Imogen hasn't, yet. Charlie's eyes slip shut, and he falls asleep sitting up. The only change in his posture comes from his head tipping back and connecting with the back of the bench. That doesn't wake him up.

[Imogen]

Out there, you know? Imogen merely lifts a shoulder slightly, letting it fall. She likely does not know, at least not precisely. The Umbra, after all, is beyond the reach of a Kinfolk. Charlie asks a question and then ... falls asleep. Imogen turns to look at him as his head tips back, and stares at him for several seconds. It's several seconds before her gaze touches his mouth, his chest, the review asexual, as she checks for the passing of air from his lips, the lift of his chest as he inhales. "S'a bit -" another pause on her part as she casts a glance toward Boy, "unnatural for a Full-blood to pass out, is it not?" Truthfully, her question appears to be more academic than it is out of concern for Charlie's health.

[Boy]

"Yeah. Yeah I was looking for..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He's looked away from his shoes to see Charlie's head tipped back in sleep. "Yeah. Well, he's a special case."

[Charlie]

At first it seems as though he's just resting with his eyes closed, but within thirty seconds the Theurge's eyelids are fluttering with what is unmistakably REM sleep. His shoulders are slumped, his hands loosely held in his lap, and he breathes through his mouth rather than his nostrils. It's as if he's been conscious for several days rather than several hours, how quickly he plummets.

[Imogen]

Her eyes flick to Charlie's moving beneath his lids, the lashes just parted enough so that she can see the irides shifting between them. "Apparently," she remarks, a little dryly. A pause, "How fascinating." Her attention returns to Boy, "I'd ask yeh t'continue yer conversation," says the slight and slender redhead, "but frankly, I imagine having it would be more interestin' wi' him, than with me." There is no self-deprecation there, just a little wryness.

[Boy]

"I haven't finished a conversation with him since I met him, actually." Both shoes were off now, and Boy flexed the toes of his feet slowly. "Doesn't matter though. I've got to get home." Slowly he starts putting his shoes back on. It looks like a painful task. Almost as painful as him rising to his feet, and dancing from one foot to the other. "Oh. I didn't get your name. I'm Boy."

[Charlie]

When he regains consciousness, they can both hear it: his breath shoots in through his nostrils rather than his mouth, and the vertebrae between his shoulder blades crackle like dry wood on a fire as he sits up straight. Charlie swipes a hand down his face as if to wake himself up. As he's coming to, the kinswoman and the Uktena are exchanging names. He doesn't immediately pick up the conversation where it was left when he fell asleep. He just shrugs off the shroud of sleepiness that yanked him under so quickly. It's not like on television--he doesn't regain his previous level of consciousness within seconds of opening his eyes.

[Imogen]

A glance at the sleeping Garou, "I believe tha' he finishes them from time to time," she replies, her gaze flicking back to watch as the young man forces his abused feet into his abused shoes. There is no surprise as he offers his uncommon name - she had heard it before when Charlie had spoken it, or perhaps she has heard it earlier than that. Just as likely - she simply controls her features that well. "Imogen Slaughter," she offers in turn - an uncommon name of her own. "A pleasure." A tacked on courtesy and not quite genuine.

[Boy]

"Imogen Slaughter. I'll remember that." He stops dancing for a while, his mouth slanting to one side as he considers Charlie for a bit. "Welcome back. I gotta get going though. Need to get home. You two have a good evening."

[Charlie]

A brief furrow stitches itself between Charlie's brow when the Half Moon's mouth kinks as he watches the Theurge, but he doesn't speak up. Boy has to get going now that he has his shoes back on, and Charlie nods, the last vestiges of sleep swiped from his eyes. "Night," he replies, planting his hands above his knees and hoisting himself to his feet. His own shoes are not nearly so dirty and worn out; they look relatively new, if somewhat mud-splattered.

[Imogen]

"Goodnight," is her farewell to Boy. She drops her cigarette and crushes it beneath the toe of her pump shoe, getting to her feet as well, casting a glance at Charlie as she does. "Not dizzy, are you?"

[Charlie]

"Huh uh," he confirms, giving a slight shake of his head. He tugs the hem of his t-shirt down and plants his hands on his sharp hips before glancing in the direction he'd been heading previously. The Brotherhood is north of here, and the Caern is a short trip beyond that; if he jogs the rest of the way back to the establishment then he can call it a day. He looks as though he needs to be exercising like most people need a hole in their heads. "That happens sometimes. Less when I sleep well. I haven't been sleeping well."

[Boy]

With barely another word, Boy limps off. Apparently running was no longer necessary nor even possible. (Thanks for the scene guys!)