Ivan Press

[Hilary] In the weeks since Hilary returned to Chicago by way of private jet, she's seen more of Ivan than she has in 5 months. That was his intention all along, that was what he flat-out told her when she was back in his sphere; he planned on spending at least some of his leisure time with her. He spoke of leisure time as though it was something precious, when most of the world would look at his life and see nothing but an endless waterfall of time, somehow golden and sunlit no matter the season. Perhaps Ivan's view of what is 'leisure' time and what is not is different from most people's. Fucking one of the dancers that caught his eye while he sat in an otherwise empty theatre with Hilary could very well be counted as one of those things that just, goshdarnit, interferes with the time he'd otherwise take for himself.

If she considers it, that's what Hilary thinks. Leisure time doesn't mean any time Ivan has away from The War, The Nation, whatever pack he's chasing around. She's never asked about any of this, never showed interest. Her sole purpose is to be as she has always been: lovely, graceful, available to her mate, preferably pregnant. She has never fulfilled her duties as kinswoman more completely than she has in these past few months; she provides no funds, food, or shelter to the Garou at large, she is utterly uninvolved in sept politics or the pathetic and laughable jockeying for Respect and Autonomy and Independence and Whateverthefuck that many younger kinfolk flail around at. Like so much in the world, Hilary just could not give less of a fuck about any of it.

She does care about Ivan, though. She cares that he missed her, whether that was just hormones or not. She wanted to be near him again. She wants to see him. When he steps away from her out of frustration or anger or hopelessness she fades away a little more, sits in silence til he comes back, does not care much to go on eating, pretending to be interested in her surroundings, in other people. Some glimmer of humanity in her knows that's insane. That it's wrong. That she can't lose herself in him, that's not all right,

but another part of her thinks it's only wrong, it's not all right, because if she loses herself entirely, he won't want her anymore. It's hard to say how often Hilary can think of it and know that it's fucked up.


They see each other far more often than all that time she was in Mexico, but the visits aren't as long. He leaves before the fact that he can't take her to bed and destroy her becomes such a tension between them that they all but claw each other's or their own eyes out. She's visited him a little, come to the penthouse where it was just a little bit safer for them to even lie down together, touch each other with a little more yearning than they can at her own. She is mistress of that apartment; Dion's people aren't anywhere in sight, and the nurses are under Ivan's payrol, but somehow she seems more relaxed when she's in what is undeniably Ivan's territory, Ivan's place. Hilary is easier to deal with, he could see in a brief comparison between one penthouse and the other, with every subtle step further into his control.

Bizarrely enough, that's when she seems most likely to assert herself in small bursts, when she'll speak up about her real wants, when she won't simply be exhausted by the thought of having to decide anything. That's when her own desires seem to come to her without effort, when they flow easily into her and when she can say yes and more importantly, no without it being a monumental struggle for her.

So it is midafternoon, one of Ivan's stretches of leisure time, and his invitation to her was more of a command to come to him, a heads up that a car would be arriving for her at X time, that he wanted to see her. And in a rare, rare turn, sounding very peaceful but very tired about it, Hilary said,

Couldn't you come here?

[Ivan] Their relationship, such as it is, is so twisted by strange ironies that Ivan wouldn't know where to begin if he tried to list them off. She cares about him when she cares about just about nothing and no one, but she doesn't know how to express it. She wants to see him, but she's a million miles away. She needs him to dominate her, to control her, to tell her where and when and how and how much, just so she can assert herself a little bit.

He's pathologically incapable of devoting himself to anyone, of bending his will to anyone's but his own, but if she asked him -- if she just opened her pretty little mouth and demanded -- he'd roll on his back for her. He'd move mountains for her, set sail a thousand ships, burn them all down, if she gave any indication that that would make her happy. Make her present.

Except --

if she demanded, she wouldn't be her. If she were so petty, so demanding, so petulant, he would be bored inside the week.


So that's the delicate, sick little balance they exist in. She's so far away and that's why he chases her. He's so incapable of responsibility and that's why she gives herself over to him.

When he wants to see her -- that strange leisure time he speaks of that makes no sense because Hilary's mind can't even grasp of anything else an overprivileged, spoiled little shit like him could possibly do with his life other than be at leisure -- he tells her when the car will be there and where she should position herself to await pickup.

She asks, couldn't you come here?

And he's there.


That mattress in her bedroom was replaced first thing in the morning, the day after she returned. That night, after the ballet, he left her to wash and undress for bed while he loitered in the kitchen downstairs, had a snack of cold salmon on spiced crackers, a bottle of ginger ale. By the time he came to her in bed she was already under the covers, her body hidden away. She was wearing something the maids set out for her; he went to the bathroom and washed and dried and stripped bare and came naked to bed, naked and marble-pale and toned and beautiful when he wrapped himself around her from behind

and found her wrists with his long lovely fingers, clasped them together in his grip,

held her just like that, half-symbolically, until they woke sometime in the mid-morning. He took his time getting her home. It was nearly 11 in the morning by the time he took her to her door, and by then her previous mattress -- it could hardly be called old -- was already long gone and her new mattress was not only installed but bedsheeted and comfortered and made up, ready for her.

He bade her farewell at the door. Since then, they've seen each other a handful of times -- more than they have in all her months in Mexico -- and yet somehow less, less completely, always with some distance, some tension. Less when they're at his place. More, when they're at hers.

He tries to be patient. He tries to remember: just be. And: just a little longer.


He stands at her door, midafternoon on a weekday, ringing the doorbell and waiting for one of the nurses -- it damn well be one of them, or else what is he paying them for? -- to come to the door and let him in. He's not carrying roses, or chocolates. Well; no. He's carrying a small chocolate rabbit in his hand, foil-wrapped and in a clear box. A joke, really. When he sees her, he sets the rabbit down next to her, throws himself languid and lean and long into whatever armchair or easychair or couch or bed is nearest.

"Happy Easter," he says.

[Hilary] Since she got back, Hilary has been tired. That's nothing new; even when she wasn't pregnant, just being around anyone was enough to wear her out. Being around Ivan with all his demanding, all his craving, all his grasping for her to be with him, was enough to make her want to just go home, not spend the night, but that's changed. Now she dissolves into him precisely because she does feel that he can take all that responsibility for her existence away from her, hold it in his infinitely incapable, careless hands. If she has an inkling that he really can't, that dominance isn't the same as responsibility, that the burden of her soul is far too much for him or anyone else, it has no impact on her day to day existence.

On the phone she sounded tired, but vaguely amused. Possibly she doesn't realize that he'd move mountains, sail ships, any of that. It doesn't seem to phase her that he would summon a ballet company on a whim for her, no matter how many times he snapped at her during that night that everything, all of it, was for her sake. It's nothing to him to do these things -- send a jet, call in favors, replace a mattress, buy her the goddamn moon -- or so she thinks of it.

Then she asked if maybe he couldn't just come to her apartment and he hung up and moments, minutes later, he was with her. Trying to be patient. Knowing he'll have to be. Knowing how far away she is. Knowing she can't be bothered to dwell in her own skin more than a few seconds at a time right now even if, by god, he'd break his back trying to please her for just a moment. Knowing that it's quite a lot, in fact, for her to even keep telling him she wants him, she wants him near, wants to see him, even if she's a half-vacant shell the whole time he's there.

Even when he grasped her wrists together, held her captive even if was only symbolically, she didn't respond. Unless, of course, her near-instant sleep in his arms and her lack of anger the next day at being kept so long at his place were a response to him. To that.


Hilary is in the living room, sitting on the ample chaise arm of the sectional couch, leaning against the back and looking out the window. There's a small balcony in her penthouse, a strange little box just big enough for, perhaps, a couple of slim chairs. Three walls of glass, one open panel, more a miniature sunroom floating above the city than a balcony. She doesn't go out on it; it makes her feel enormous. She sits in her living room and stares at Chicago.

The nurse who opens the door is dressed like an assistant, not in scrubs or some ridiculous aproned uniform but slacks, a crisp buttoned shirt, and a rather fashionable cardigan that hourglasses her top half. Her hair is tied back, her glasses are subtly catty, and she never smiles. She did when she was hired, but, well. Welcoming him in with barely two words exchanged, she returns to the kitchen to continue creating the light luncheon that will be eviscerated with criticism and displeasure by the bitch in the living room.

The bitch who is not noticably bigger than the last couple of times he's seen her, as though she simply can't grow any more. The bitch who wears a simple black top that fits but does not hug her, loose pants that are comfortable without being overly useless. She pays a great deal of money to look even remotely stylish while pregnant, and hates every article. She's fantasized a great deal about burning it all after this is over. The bitch who doesn't look up when Ivan walks past a wall of glass and into her surroundings. She looks at the rabbit a moment after he sets it down, stares at it instead of the city while he throws himself onto the couch beside her.

Close. But not too close.

"I hate April," she says, looking out at the view again. "Everyone quoting Eliot like they're being profound or original with it, obsessed with their own pathos." She glances at the rabbit again.

Pauses. Reaches out and picks it up, bringing it closer. She looks at the brand, the maker. Decides to open the box, and take the foil-wrapped bunny out. She looks vaguely bland, bored, and yet... childlike and curious and innocent almost, as she carefully unwraps the top

and snaps the rabbit's ears off.

"So I've decided to wait until May to cut the brat out," she says before she so much as tastes the chocolate, talking about her own incised flesh like it's nothing, not knowing she's thinking the same thing Ivan did, once, of her impending C-section. "My brother was born in May," she adds, too. "I'll have to pass his name on, at least in part."

Hilary takes a bite of chocolate.

[Ivan] Ivan snorts a laugh as Hilary declares her hatred for April, for that abominable poem everyone's been quoting for the last month. April is the cruelest month, as if they had any idea why, what came after, what that whole damn rant was about.

"Your heart would have responded," he replies, "beating obedient to controlling hands."

He's stretched beside her, slouched down on that well-cushioned couch of hers, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his feet on the coffeetable. Perhaps there are books there; if there are, he doubt Hilary picked them. He wonders what she does sometimes when he's not there. He saw her only briefly when she had not seen him -- at San Miguel, in her hacienda, moving amongst the arches and the pillars with her belly gently rounding out. Only five or six months along, then. She didn't seem to be doing much. Thinking much.

He did not see her that night at the restaurant, motionless and empty when he left her.

His head turns, short hair scritching faintly against fabric or leather upholstery. "I read the Wasteland when I was a schoolboy," he says by way of explanation. As though he were so very vastly past that age now. As though he were not, in fact, about the age of a college senior this very year. "A badly selective quotation, that was. Forgive me. I'm pretty sure there was a line sandwiched in there about 'gaily' responding, too, and something about happy little boats on an ocean, but I thought that was a bit ridiculous to quote meaningfully at you even under the standard of poetic license."

He holds his hand out for a bite of the chocolate he brought her. It's hardly a chocolate rabbit off a Walgreen's shelf. The candy itself is luscious and delicate, bittersweet and smooth as silk. The name emblazoned on the box unfamiliar except to a very select crowd. If she gives him a piece, he pops it in his mouth, chews thoughtfully while she speaks of May. Her brother.

"You did mention you wanted to name it after your brother," he says. "Did you finally settle on something, then?"

[Hilary] He snorts, quotes another line from The Waste Land, and Hilary just looks at him a moment, lost, confused, the reference falling awkwardly between them as she does not know that line, nor remember it, nor perhaps even know the name of the poem she hates just because everyone quotes the first line all the time. She just knows it's Eliot, and that because of this and because of her poor devoured brother,

she'll wait til May.

It doesn't strike her til a few beats later in the conversation why that line of all lines came to Ivan's mind, that he -- whether even he realized it or not -- was talking about her.


A schoolboy, he says. Such an archaic little term. Apologizes for that line, that ever-so-on-the-nose line, while she sucks on a bite of chocolate. "I thought it was rather apt," she says mildly when she finishes the bite, though this is as much forgiveness as he ever gets from her, just as her taking a bite at all is about as much appreciation for the rabbit as he should have expected.

He holds out his hand and she narrows her eyes at his palm, then at his face, the first time she's really looked at him since he entered. "You selfish thing," she says, and breaks the head off, passing the already ravished crown to his hand.

"No," she says, turning her head away again. "I want to know whose it is first."

[Ivan] "It was, wasn't it," Ivan muses, but quotes no further. Nor discusses. Strange to think that might've been the closest either of them has ever come to discussing her behavior; the way she opens to him, settles into herself, when nearly every shred of self-will has been taken from her.

Strange, because he's clawed at her for just about everything else. Bits of her history, her past. Why are you like this, why, why. Why are you so broken, why can't you be with me. And through all that, the one, the most fundamental truth of their relationship

( -- such as it were -- )

remains all but mute between them. Unremarked. They move on; she calls him a selfish thing, which he can hardly deny.

"If you want more, I'll buy you a truckload," Ivan replies instead. She says she wants to wait to see whose child it is. It, it. They keep calling the boy an 'it', when it's all but ready to be born. When it's all but an individual. The corner of his mouth twists up. "Why? So you can name it something Russian if it's mine and something Spanish if it's his?" A pause. "What about that other boy of yours, the Ahroun with the pretty eyes? Do you have an Italian name picked out too?"

[Hilary] "I was still on the pill when I fucked Christian, Ivan," Hilary says, with some vague annoyance. "Dion didn't come back til the day after that."

Some women would be ashamed, or embarrassed, or... anything. Talking to a man who admits he might be in love with her, even if he wouldn't have any idea what that should feel like, telling him that he's silly. That she fucked some flailing near-adolescent the day before her husband came back and started railing her. Hilary thinks in the logistics of it all; it's impossible that the baby is Christian's. So it's really a coin-toss. Option A or option B. It helps narrow it down, at least.

She takes another bite of chocolate.

[Ivan] "How could I have forgotten," Ivan replies, droll.

Perhaps it would be cruel, were he any other man, to speak so frankly of such things. He admitted he might be in love with her, for god's sake. He flies her across the globe if she asks. He comes to see her if she all but snaps her fingers. He brings her easter chocolates on a whim, quotes poetry at her like a besotted -- well. Schoolboy. -- poetry that leaves little question, that may as well be saying:

I know you. As unknowable as you are: I know you.

At least a little bit.

And to that, she tells him: she was still on the pill when she fucked Christian. And then Dion came back, and he fucked her too. And somewhere in there was a night with Ivan, and then --


He doesn't care, of course. If he did, it would be cruel to tell him these things. But he doesn't care; that's the whole point. She eats her chocolate bunny and he licks chocolate off his fingertips, aristocratic fingers, long and straight and slim, much as he is. Not a callous on his palms -- beautiful, brutal boy. He hears himself asking,

"Who else do you fuck?"

[Hilary] What is there to know, she'd think, being told she's known. But he doesn't tell her that. He says something about a responding heart, controlling hands, and she feels that thing she can't and doesn't want to name, that thing she feels when he's wit her. She doesn't know what it is and she doesn't know how to understand it, but it feels right, and safe,

so she accepts it. And asks him to come again. Eats the chocolate he brings her as though the very act of someone giving it to her means she's entitled to it, its hers, and requires no reciprocation nor even a simple thank-you.

"I'm not sure you knew," she says thoughtfully, though neither of them really care. She licks a spot of chocolate off her thumb and turns, easily and actually quite smoothly curling against Ivan's side. She tucks her legs up, knees near his lap. She's an odd shape, of course, and her stomach presses against his chest and his stomach and his leg all together, but she lays her head on his shoulder, her brow to the crook of his neck,

but this all happens before he asks her who else she fucks. She frowns, suddenly viciously, twistingly angry, something she hasn't even had energy for for months now. She scowls, but her face is hidden. He might feel that wave of tension.

But her voice is so bored, so irritated. "Let's not do that."

[Ivan] What lovely people they are, even now, even like this, the woman swollen and far away; the man more or less ignoring that great curvature that may well house his bastard. What lovely creatures they are, lounging on her couch: so languid, so at ease, the city at their backs through glass, untouchable. It could never touch them, that city, its stains. They're too mad for anything but perfection.

She curls into him and he doesn't respond. He doesn't put his arm around her; he's already thinking then of the question he asks but doesn't care about.

And she's angry. In a flash, viciously angry. He can't see her scowl. Her voice is merely boredom and irritation, which is not rage. He feels the wave of tension; he doesn't respond to that, either. His voice is light, just as bored as hers.

"Do what? What is it you think I'm doing, Hilary?"

[Hilary] "'Who are you fucking?' 'Well, who are you fucking?'" she says, intimating a needless and endless back-and-forth with her tone. Hilary sighs. "I don't want the pretense or the reality of not caring if the other ceases to exist sexually when we're apart, I don't want to think about it. I don't want to know, I don't care to talk about it with you."

She draws away. He didn't put his arm around her, anyway, and the feeling or lack of feeling she had for a moment that spurred her sudden decision to be that close to him is gone. Feels ripped away, in fact, for no reason. She did nothing wrong.

More energetic than she's been in months, more graceful than a woman this pregnant should ever be, Hilary pushes herself up off the couch and they both hear, quietly, the door to the second bedroom open and closet behind the woman who answered the door.

"You're ruining it by even bringing it up," she says, petulance covering disturbance, unease, the fear that so often roars into fury. "Why would you ask that?"

[Ivan] That nurse shutting herself quietly into the spare bedroom: that poor woman. Came here thinking it would be a nice, cushy job. A pregnant woman. An expectant mother. Glowing; and even if she isn't glowing, even if very fucking pregnant women are more cranky than glowy this late in the term, well after the initial excitement has worn off -- still, even then, a nice, cushy job. A young woman, so far as such things are considered in the nursing field. Still motile. Not some ancient bedridden crone with no control over her own bowels. A few weeks' of work that pays more than her usual annual salary. She was smiling when she was hired, her and the rest of that team that she sees only in shifts -- two nurses here twenty four seven, an obstetrician, a technician, god knows who else -- but that was before she met this expectant mother, this glowing madonna

who spends hours simply staring out the window, who barely seems to rouse herself to live half the time and yet still manages to dredge up coolly ego-crushing commentary on every attempt at lunch she's ever made. She's a goddamn nurse, not a chef.

And then there's the young man whose money apparently foots the bill. The one that comes around, that lounges about like some oscar wilde lordling, that sometimes just sends one of those fucking Russians up to fetch his lover, that,

today,

has decided to broach the ever-popular topic of who else are you fucking.


God, what that nurse must think of them.


They don't care, of course. They're above such things. And he doesn't care who else she's fucking; he's above such things. She's so angry that she gets to her feet with more grace than he thought capable and he just watches her, bemused.

And then amused -- laughing at her, "Oh, Hilary, did you think I would care? Did you think I was -- oh god, you thought I'd be jealous, is that it?"

Laughing,
lying,

and then not. His laughter stills and his brow furrows. He looks at her across that new distance, looks at her a long time.

"I don't know why I asked that," he says quietly. Coldly perhaps. And then with a flicker in his brow, disturbed because this is the truth: "I don't want to know the answer.

"I don't care who else you're fucking, but I don't want to know."

[Hilary] Hilary has no idea how much those poor nurses are being paid for their time, but she assumes it's enough. Enough to make the job worth it, enough to secure their discretion and availability, enough to make them choose to live with strangers for just a few weeks, enough to put up with everything she might put them through, all that might be asked of them. Else why would any servant serve? She can't wrap her mind around the idea of loyalty that is anything but bought, and so she assumes enough and doesn't think much past that.

The door to the second bedroom closes and the walls here are thick enough to muffle any murmurs between the two nurses, one a crisp, neurotic, bespectacled white girl and the other a tall, thin black woman with short hair and less backbone than she pretends to have. And in the little living area that is only loosely separated from the rest of the vast apartment, Hilary levers herself to her feet and prematurely puts her hand on her distended middle to press against the brat before he can start jogging on her organs.

Ivan laughs at her and she whips the headless chocolate rabbit back at him, bouncing it off his shoulder, her eyes ignited. It's hardly the worst she's done to him, tried to do to him, but at least one of the dry twigs keeping her sanity aloft snaps just then. "You don't know for a second what I thought," she lashes at him, though the whip is too gentle to cause so much as a ripple, to even catch much notice.

The laughter stills and dies, her hand leaves her stomach, she stares at him like she would like to come over there again and claw her hands down his face, rake his eyes out, dig her fingers into his cheek til it rips, til he can't ever smile again, til all he's doing is scr--

Her heart is racing so much she's lightheaded, and Hilary closes her eyes for a moment while Ivan's talking, not knowing what's going through her mind, only knowing she looks angry, then dizzy. Something something something why I asked something something I don't want something something you're fucking something something want to know.

She goes back to the couch and sits down, breathing more heavily than before, looking at the low, dark-wood coffee table, an anchoring point in all the light colors and sunshine, a contrast which informs the chocolate-brown patterns against pale-blue fabrics here, there, the frames on the art Hilary never looks at for long.

"You have a compulsion to ask questions like that," Hilary says, as though she's calming down, her voice quiet. She doesn't sound like she wants to shred his pretty young face with her fingernails any longer. She looks dazed, head still spinning from a sudden rollercoaster of blood pressure. "Questions that end up hanging over our heads, lingering in our minds." Her eyes close a moment. "I don't care if you'd be jealous; it isn't any of your business. But I don't care who else you fuck; I just don't think of it."

Which is what he said, too. Sort of. Her eyes open, stare at the wood. "When you're with me, you're with me. And I'm here with you. That's all that matters."

[Ivan] Perhaps some of what she's thinking shows in her eyes. Not a lot -- so little can show in those black eyes of her -- but then he's so perceptive sometimes; not a reader of men, no, but sharp. Perhaps he sees just a glimmer of it. Knows that when she throws a chocolate rabbit at him, almost laughable -- that her intent is something so much blacker.

There's so much rage in her. So much toxic, bleeding rage that it seems to gut her. When she sits down he's done talking; he's looking at her; he looks a little discomfited, holds a hand out uncertainly as though he might

what? Keep her from falling, maybe. Keep her from coming closer, maybe.

She speaks. And after a long moment, long and indecisive, his hand touches her after all. He puts his fingers on the back of her neck. He wraps his hand there at the base of her neck, over her shoulder. She still feels slender there. Slender and graceful, even as the rest of her mutates beyond recognition.

If she lets his hand stay, if she doesn't tear herself away -- after a moment, his touch grows a little heavier. He kneads, strokes, rests, as though trying to communicate without communicating. Communicate his presence. Communicate -- something a little akin to apology, maybe. Maybe.

"What are you afraid of?" he whispers.

[Hilary] The truth is, this is all she wanted. Curled up against him suddenly, hopefully, nesting against his warmth and his presence, as though this time she's the one needing to be reassured that he's here, he's here with her, he's not so far away. And as soon as she did, he asked that awful thing, that awful thing she's going to pretend he didn't say, because it's very important that they both pretend not to care too much.

Ivan put his hand on her neck and she exhales, eyes falling closed again, relaxing as though she were a robot and he were flicking a switch, turning her off. He starts to massage her there, the way he massages her back and shoulders when he's had her wrenched into some position for minutes or hours, some position meant to make her body more appealing, to increase his pleasure in her. Hilary sighs and shifts, lays down on his lap, lying on her side on the couch.

"I don't know," she says, flinching faintly at the question. "I don't know, I don't want to know, just stay. Stay this time and don't leave me."

[Ivan] They don't care. It's so very important that they don't care, that they not care, that they pretend not to care even if it's not the truth. Because if they cared this becomes insurmountable. And terrible. And devastating.

They could never belong to each other. Not merely because of who she is, who she belongs to, but because of who they are. They could never --

stay for long.


Still, when she says that, when she flinches a little like that after all but melting back into his presence as though that's all it took, that hand on her skin, that touch, that implication of soothing, of dominance -- that's all it takes for her to lose her grip on her anger and melt into whatever it is she is when she's like this with him --

still, when she says that, flinches like that, his brow contracts like someone's put a knife in him. Not brutally, but stealthily. Silky-smooth, so quick and whisper-soft: a killing wound, dead before you even feel the pain. His hand strokes her hair. He pets her like she's some pet, strokes her hair back from her face, touches her face, strokes the side of her face like she belongs to him.

"When have I ever really left you?" he murmurs; he can't tell if it hurts to say that because it's a lie, or because it's the truth.

[Hilary] Whatever happens to them, wherever she goes or whomever she's mated to, there's no more future for them than there is for any pair of Silver Fangs. Their own madness pulls them apart from the inside. If there is a peaceful mateship in the tribe, it exists primarily in the minds of the individuals, each pretending it is everything they should want, each pretending that what they want and what they have are even in the same realm, lying to themselves and laying it on thick so that they can survive.

Dion and Hilary fit that mold, too. And look what's become of it: a new Fang for the tribe, a well-bred Kin or maybe even a Garou. Both of them pretending this is all right, this is good, this is what they want. Both of them, most of the time, pretending that what they want doesn't matter. Shouldn't.

She settles, now, more peaceful, as though that burst of rage never happened, as though she wasn't staring out the window at nothing, waiting for him to be there so she'd have some kind of purpose to her sudden energy. If she understood herself and what's happening to her she might realize this is her body's sign that it's coming, it's almost time, that if she weren't going to have a c-section anyway she'd go into labor on her own any day now. She might understand that her sudden energy, her fanatic smoothing and re-smoothing of the bedding every time she wakes up, her need to cook for no reason but to chop something up, is all her body unleashing stored-up forcefulness, unleashing months of strength to get her through these last weeks, through labor, through recovery.

But right now, she melts against his lap, letting him stroke her hair, run the backs of his fingers against her cheek, so smooth and pale and cool, faintly flushed with color. Her hand rests on his leg, fingers lightly curled. She has no idea she could hurt him like his expression intimates she has.

There's no answer to that. To be literal, it would be a list: every time he visits, every time he drops her back off, every time he walks away, every time she pushes him away, every time, always, always, he's always leaving, he never just stays, as though she'd even want him to stay with her all the time. To be honest, though,

would be too hard for her, for them both,

and so Hilary says nothing at all. She lets the moments unfurl as he strokes her hair and touches her face, her neck, her shoulder, smooths those long, silky strands back. Her breathing steadies. "Sunday is a waning crescent moon," she whispers, only dimly understanding that this is even the name of his House. "Very close to new. I think, even if it's Dión's son, that's only fair."

[Ivan] That brings another pause. It's barely there. Just a dynamic sort of stillness in his fingers, as though they might quiver in place, though they never do. Then they move on, stroking, stroking, gentle. He catches a slender lock of hair between his index and middle, guides it back behind her ear. She's such a lovely thing. It's almost incomprehensible how such beauty can hide such a flawed, broken soul.

She asked him this a long time ago. Or no; it was only last week. It seems like a long time. It always seems like a long time now, as though the nine months that went before somehow stole by because they were out of one another's sight; as though these last agonizing days stretch on forever because they see each other so much.

Leave each other so much.

She asked him this, though not quite in these words, and he asks her back: "Do you want him to be mine, Hilary?"

[Hilary] It's such a tender little question, the sort of thing she'd like to crush under her heel, shatter out of existence. She doesn't want to think about it like it's a person, like it's an actual son, a child, a person who will have to grow up one way or another. The last time she really did that was in Mexico, standing alone in the shower after the last time she ever had sex with Ivan, holding her arms around herself and begging the universe or the child or both for a dozen impossibilities. It was so monumentally painful she hasn't done it twice. She couldn't even hold those thoughts in mind for more than a few seconds.

And she can't drink, and she can't take the pretty pills, the pretty white ones or pink ones that make everything go away for a few hours, so she just leaves herself. She leaves herself, and then Ivan's there and to be with him she has to be in herself again,

and it all hurts a great deal.

But the truth is, she has thought about the It inside of her like it's a boy, a child, a baby, a person, and she's not so dim or mad to not understand that he is vulnerable, he's as helpless as it gets, she's the only thing protecting him from scary things like light and air and noise. Ivan asks her what she's afraid of and she can't bear it, she can't say it aloud. I'm the only thing keeping this thing alive. I'm the only thing protecting it. Me.

Who wouldn't find that frightening, she has to wonder.


A deep breath at the question, held caught for a moment, then exhaled. "I don't want him to be mine," she whispers, her eyes shut tight like a child after a nightmare refusing to open them. Her hand tightens faintly on his leg. "And if he's yours, he goes away, and then he doesn't have to be mine anymore."

[Ivan] That might have been the first time Ivan ever called the thing inside her a he. He's known for a long time that it was a son, a boy, a prince and an heir if only it lived a few hundred years ago. She told him, he imagines, or else let it slip somehow. Neither of them like to acknowledge it, but they're not fools. They're not forgetful, and unmindful.

A boy. A son. Him.

He thinks for a moment after she answers. Her eyes are closed, and that flash of anger is gone, gone, but there's something like terror in her, only it's as fragmentary and fragmented as she is. His hand moves from her face to her hand. He takes her fingers in his; she's afraid because she's the only thing protecting this unborn boy, and if he knew that he'd laugh at the irony.

He's responsible for her now. Her, and the baby. He's responsible: him.

"If that's what you want," he murmurs quietly, "I'll take him away whether or not he's mine. But Hilary, it'll only buy you a small measure of peace. A few weeks, maybe a few months. It'll only mean Dion will be trying to sire another trueborn heir on you soon enough. Another pregnancy, another baby, all this all over again. And he'll be that much less patient. That much more resentful and angry."

His hand closes over hers. Sometimes he thinks: I'm the only thing protecting her. Me.

"If it's his, let him keep it," he finishes quietly. "It'll be easier that way."

[Hilary] "I wouldn't give it to you if it weren't yours," Hilary says quietly, opening her eyes. His hand is warm on hers, and all of her is warm, it seems, the apartment kept cool to keep her comfortable as a result. "That wouldn't be right."

It doesn't bear noting, this time, the ridiculousness of the statement, the concern for what is good and right and moral. She turns her head and looks up at him then, their hands twined, cupping one another.

He'd roll over for her, and she doesn't quite realize that. He'd stay and hold her if maybe, maybe, that would make her something like happy for a few hours. Buy her a new house. A plane. A country. And she'd never ask for it. None of that would make her happy. None of that would make her sane and better.

For a moment, she just looks at him. There's nothing she can say beyond that. Nothing she knows how to say, at least.

[Ivan Press] [christ... DSL no bueno.]

[Carter Roth] It takes a few minutes, but Carter eventually wanders back into the living room from the kitchen, his glass now full to the brim with the amber liquid that constituted whiskey in this household. He glanced from one Garou to the next, his gaze lingering curiously upon Melody as he returned to his seat and eased into it with a tired sigh.

"I miss anything exciting since I went looking for the good stuff?" He asks as he looked from one to the other.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She nods a little bit. "Yeah? S'good to know. I don't know Bronwyn--I think she's another new arrival--but I've met Nathalie once or twice and Stefan's my sister's mate. I'm sure you'll get the chance to meet her."

She smiles slightly. "It's an interesting pack make-up. A lot of times those work for the best." She speaks from experience. About the last Tribes she every expected to be packed alongside are the Shadow Lords and Silver Fangs and...well.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Okay, apologies, the submit puttong was being a bitch.]]

[Melody Drake] A small shake of her head, and a smile to Carter- no, he didn't miss much.

"It is different than I expected, what little I knew of packs to be fair, but I think the dynamic works well," she agrees with a small nod. "And I do hope to meet your sister soon, after all I've heard."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] "Oh?" She can't help but grin at that. 'After all I've heard' can go many different directions when dealing with her sister. "What have you heard?"

She looks over at Carter and nods to him as he returns.

[Melody Drake] The makes her arch an eyebrow, amusement on her face. "I've heard of her work with the kinfolk alliance, Stefan seems very proud of her, and Nathalie seemed to like the idea and actions as well."

[Ivan Press] Presently, Lucille returns with a new guest in tow. Mr. Ivan Press, she announces, a strictly no-nonsense, no-frills introduction. Hear to see Ms. Sarita de la Risa. Of all the packmate and its associates, Lucille might be the only one to give the liquid beauty of that last name justice. She seems to like dropping the 'Ecos', though. Maybe she thinks it fits better: Sarita of the Laughter, simply.

Lucille goes off to do Lucille-type things, then, leaving Ivan standing in the Loft, looking at its occupants with as much interest as they might show in the newcomer himself. That he is of Katherine's tribe is unmistakable; even if the breeding didn't give it away, the effortless grace of his posture and stance does. That, and the scent of money that all but wafts from him.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" It's more practiced courtesy than genuine worry.

[Ivan Press] [HERE to see. my god.]

[Carter Roth] They both nodded, or shook their head, either way they let him know simply that Carter had not missed a damn thing, not all that surprising, he hadn't been gone that long.

He took another drink from his glass and seemed pleased with the make of his whiskey. But then the alliance was spoken of again, it is something that has been on his mind since he had been incarcerated here, something that he had not been able to partake in at all.

"Not everyone seems quite so thrilled." He said roughly.

But then there was another Garou, someone named Ivan Press, Lucille just let everyone in didn't she? Carter regarded the man blue green eyes narrowing slightly, not out of curiosity this time, more warriness then anything.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She nods at Melody's response. Inwardly she's thinking oh good, none of the insane stuff, but outwardly it's just acknowledgment. "Yeah...she's definitely got some good ideas going with that."

Then she looks over at Ivan, smiling as he sees him come in. She stands up, thanking Lucille, and looking the man over. "Ivan, m'man. Good to see you. No, you're not interrupting. How are you?"

[Melody Drake] Melody arches an eyebrow, turning to look at Carter as if to ask 'Why not?', the question on the tip of her tongue. However, the introduction of Ivan causes her to stay her words instead; business to be discussed later perhaps.

Placing her drink on the table, she folds her hands quietly in her lap and watches, a faint smile on her lips and her expression pleasant. Sarita seems to know the new guest and she quietly watches them interact, trying to decide if this is her cue to leave.

[Ivan Press] What can be said of Ivan, except that he is tall, golden, lean, privileged - a new-millennium sort of Fang?

Well; plenty, to be truthful. Depends on how much they've heard, how much each of them are plugged into the rumormill. The Presses are fabulously wealthy -- the sort of wealth that's accumulated past a critical point where it compounds on itself, becomes almost impossible to entirely lose. An empire of commerce rather than land, there are those amongst the old guard Fangs who mutter that these flashy Russians, who disguise their heritage behind a much more Fortune 500-friendly last name, have utterly forgotten what it is to be a Silver Fang. They mate with Glass Walkers now; they even dally with Shadow Lords. Sold their pride out for money and human influence. How despicable.

And then there are the rumors that surround Mr. Ivan Press himself. Popular on the club circuit; something closer to notorious in high society. Known for dropping tens of thousands of dollars on impromptu parties at various swanky locales around town. Never did a day's work in his life; spends his family's money like it grows on a tree, or falls from the sky -- which for him may as well be true. Frequently seen with models and dancers and aspiring starlets on his arm, though some vestigial shred of modesty -- or just pragmatism, or perhaps threats of getting his allowance cut off by mom and dad -- keeps him from getting too far into the celebrity spotlight.

Not known for fidelity. Or faithfulness. Or any sort of commitment whatsoever. Can't even bear to be in a steady pack for long. Is tagging along with some Shadow Lord pack. What sort of Silver Fang, what sort of wolf...

This is the creature that smoothly shakes Sarita's hand. "Doing rather well, thank you," he replies. "My congratulations on the Eldership."

He turns his eyes toward the others, both Shadow Lords. "Ah, the dreaded and esteemed 'enemy'," he quips. "Never fear, I've a cousin twice removed who's a Shadow Lord. Ivan Resplendent-Dusk, by the way. Ragabash Cliath of Falcon."

[Mad Maddox] He's been here before. Presumably, Maddox was given some sort of key. It's also entirely possible that he used said key to get into the beautifully renovated loft. It's also just as likely (if not moreso) that he didn't. However the mangy Fianna got inside, he makes his way down from the upstairs, tall and gangly and passingly attractive. There's a cigarette tucked behind his ear, dressed in jeans, a yellow t-shirt that emphasizes just how thin he is. Like a beanpole, or a scarecrow, especially today with his dark hair askew. His feet are bare.

He comes shuffling down the stairs, stops at the bottom just in time for Ivan's introduction, and smirks.

"Really, that's it? I thought your lot had intros so long they could wrap around the world thrice."

[Melody Drake] More new people. There is a glance back at the new voice, but her attention is on Ivan; introductions are at hand.

"An example of keep your friends close and your enemies closer?" She asks, though the lilt of her voice at the smile shows it is meant in jest and she holds no animosity. A nod is given at his introduction and she replies, "Melody Drake, also known as Sweet Whispers, Cliath Ragabash and child of Thunder. A pleasure to meet you."

[Carter Roth] Carter does much like melody. He falls silent and watches, watches the Silver fang as he introduces himself, this guy was as slick as oil on a sea otter, how knows the guys family might be in the oil buisness for all the money he reeked off.

The look Carter had was slightly unimpressed, sure he had money, sure he had connections but he looked...soft.

He nods to the man, he plays the civil game and even responds with his name. "Carter..." He says in his own gruff way before returning to his drink. Or he would have, when from behind them another Garou arrives, a long lean almost bean pole like fellow. Carter was now surrounded by Garou, from all sides, and their combined rage made his skin crawl.

The grip on his glass grew greater and his eyes slid shut for a moment as he tried to breath,, tried to stay in control.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She chuckles a little bit and reaches out to take Ivan's hand. "Thanks. Nice to see you."

Ivan's entrance, he's expecting. Maddox just popping out of nowhere from the upstairs causes her to snap her head around. It's possible that she's one of the prospectives, and it's entirely possible that he's not. Sarita doesn't know one way or the other. The Strider gives the Fianna a long stare, looking him over.

"Uh, hi." The 'Uh' part doesn't seem to be a loss for words. Too much time passes between Sarita noticing him and the words for that to be the case.

[Ivan Press] "Actually," Ivan explains offhand, "no, an example of business over personal pursuits. Her family was the controlling shareholder in PNA Telecom, and we wanted to buy them out at below-market price. She got a nice purebred mate to make lovely blackhaired cubs with; we got the shares. Good deal for everyone, and besides, she's actually quite personable. Quite pleasant company at family retreats on the Black Sea. And Cousin Yuri's branch of the family always had an unfortunate tendency to turn into drooling idiots at age 40, anyway.

"And I," now he's answering Maddox, "always thought your lot was typically too drunk to notice the difference. At any rate, if I gave my full introduction, I'd have to explain all the other scandalous little crossings in my family tree."

[Mad Maddox] "Oh really?" he asks, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans and coming forward. It really is a bit of a shock for a stranger to show up right in the middle of what passes as close to a packhouse as the Unbroken have. There are things that could be assumed here, if the people chatting in the living room were the assuming type. Apparently, one of them is.

Maddox flicks his brows upward. "And what lot is that?" he asks, curious. There is no breeding that calls out to the Garou in the room, no features of some long-gone hero of old shining through Maddox's countenance. They can't even tell, at least not right away, that he's Garou. Except, of course, for the kinsman who actually knows.

[Melody Drake] There is a slight vibration from her purse and she glances down, pulling out the phone to see the number. Eyes narrow and for a moment that pleasant expression is blank. And then she's sliding the phone away and standing up, gaze moving to Sarita. "I'm sorry to leave so suddenly Sarita, there's something I need to take care of. It was an honor to meet you."

A glance at Carter, a faint smile. "You as well Mr. Roth. Resplendant-Dusk, I regret leaving so soon after our meeting, but it was still nice to meet you. I wish you all a good evening."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She looks at Melody and smiles a bit. "No problem, Melody...we'll catch up more later. If you want to leave your number, I'll give you a call, or I can probably get it through Amy."

She looks back to Maddox and clears her throat, then speaks...slower, and louder. "UM. HI."

[Danicka Musil] [a/s/l?]

[Mad Maddox] [23/m/your pants?]

[Danicka Musil] [you are unhelpful and shall be summarily beheaded]

[Carter Roth] Carter watches as Melody gets up and states her intention of leaving. He nods to the woman before his eyes flicker to the others in the room before he speaks.

"It was good to meet you Melody....catch ya round." His gravelly voice follows her as she heads for the door. Carter for his part, wishes he could follow, there were to many garou for his tastes...or at least too many garou he barely knew.

[Melody Drake] [And I just lol'd. Nice.]

"Of course," she says, pausing to pull out a card and hand it to Sarita. "Thank you, again."

With that done, she gives another nod to those in the room and moves to head out the door, already reaching for her phone.

[Melody Drake] [And when you have the time, Melody has some questions for Lukas about kinfolk :) it's no rush and whenever is good for you]
to Ivan Press

[Ivan Press] "Pleasure to meet you," he says to Melody, stepping a little ways out of the way to allow her an unimpeded path to the door. Not that there's much impedance possible in a space as spare and open as the Loft.

"Think she's talking to you," he adds to Maddox helpfully.

[Ivan Press] [sure thing, just drop in if you see me!]
to Melody Drake

[Melody Drake] [Thanks much for the scene!]

[Mad Maddox] It's almost like a Mexican stand-off, excepting the noticeable lack of saloon, empty and dusty street, and ponchos. Maddox watches Ivan, Ivan pulls the Fang card and dismisses him to off pleasantries to the leaving Melody. All the while, Sarita tries to get Maddox's attention.

Sarita...Oh right!

The Theurge's attention snaps to the new Ragabash Elder, the Silver Fang forgotten. "Ah, my apologies," he says, stepping toward the Strider with outstretched hand, angling his body in a half-bow. "Maddox Cartwright, Where the Sidewalk Ends. Lukáš Wyrmbreaker showed me around the other night."

[Danicka Musil] Shortly after Melody departs the Loft, a car that's rarely seen there pulls up. She comes here more than she used to, but there has to be a reason. Usually, that reason is a swarthy black-haired Shadow Lord, all tall-dark-handsome, the sort of big bad Ahroun that the pretty blonde kinswomen usually swoon for,

siiiiiigh!

But he isn't here. His name just came up but he's not here and yet there's his mate's slate-blue Infiniti coming to a stop. Then the mate herself stepping out of it, all sharp-toed stillettos and flare-legged gray slacks and a navy blue sweater with a low v-neck over a fluttery pink tank top with some floral embellishment that peeks out through that low v-neck and a crop-hemmed, crop-sleeved peacoat over it all because Chicago can't make up its damn mind, weatherwise. She's still here, Lukas or no Lukas, slinging her purse over her shoulder and walking right up to the door and smiling at Lucille when yet another person shows up.

"Hola, Lucille," she says to the maid, and: "Is Mr. Roth available?"

And soon enough, she's heading towards the living room, her heels clicking on those hard, shiny floors.

[Carter Roth] Melody was gone, which meant there was only one person that Carter had any real contact with, which left him edgy, which required him to control his breathing. Thankfully the new comers had largely ignored him, which at one point would have annoyed him. But hes trying to control that anger, trying to keep it just beneath the surface...it was turning out to be an interesting night.

Carter was considering his exit strategy, he was looking back towards his room, towards the upstairs, nope..that wouldn't work it was blocked, his only option was the pool and to pray to god he could beat them off with wet pool noodles.

But then the clack clack of high heeled shoes resounded through the loft, and through the voices of the Garou Carter could hear someone speak his name. This widened his eyes in surprise, at least until the person made themselves known.

As Danika stepped into the room Carter let out a low, inaudible snort and nodded to the woman. Not really happy to see her given their last meeting...but civil...for now.

[Danicka Musil] [per/emp: this is how we show our love]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Danicka Musil] [...kbsdp.]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] "Ahh, right." She nods a little bit, the irritation and intense look that Maddox is getting dissipating. Somewhat, at least. A grin covers the rest of it, and she takes the hand. "Sarita Ecos de la Risa. Strider and Ragabash Elder. Lukas mentioned you. Just didn't mention you'd be coming from upstairs." A little quirk to the grin, and then she looks over as Danicka comes in. Lukas's mate gets a smile and nod.

"Hey, Danicka."

[Ivan Press] If Ivan had intended to answer Maddox's earlier question, it was derailed and derailed again. He's probably forgotten by now; turns as Lucille brings in yet another visitor.

"I'm just running into you all over the city these days," he says to Danicka. "Are you stalking me again?"

He invites himself to take a seat. Not quite next to anyone -- but close enough to Sarita to make conversation. Which is what he does next: "So, you mentioned you wanted to talk."

[Mad Maddox] He chuckles, shrugs a shoulder, but doesn't offer an explanation as to why he was coming from upstairs. Or where his shoes are, if he even had any to begin with. For the record he must have them somewhere, his feet are too clean for him to have been wandering around the city with bare feet. Or he made use of one of the bathrooms.

"I think it's far more likely that she's stalking me," answers Maddox, with a grin for Danicka. The wink he throws, however, is not for the lovely, prettily dressed Shadow Lord, but for Lucille. If she ignores it (and honestly, who would dignify that look with a reaction?), it doesn't phase him. Before Ivan can get to comfortable, Maddox turns his attention to Sarita once again.

"D'you mind if I raid the kitchen a bit?"

[Danicka Musil] Pausing in the entryway, Danicka looks directly at Carter first, and for an eyeblink -- a passing moment, a half-heartbeat -- she just looks at him. It's hard to tell; maybe she's getting some idea of whether he's about to go to bed or not, if he's in a pissy mood or not. He huffs like that and she raises an eyebrow, but by then she's already gotten what she needs to out of that glance. She looks to Ivan, Maddox, and Sarita, smiling at the last.

"Hi, Sarita." She glances at Maddox; Lukas mentioned him to Sarita, he's living at the Loft, but she hasn't been introduced. "My name is Dani&+269;ka Musil," she tells him, but that's all. "Mr. Press," she says flatly, a touch dryly, without looking at him, "I had a lovely glass of vodka at your penthouse once. Try not to ruin a memory of a decent evening with a Silver Fang by making it about your self-destructive flirtations."

To Carter, then: "Mr. Roth, would you take a walk with me? Around the block if there are no terms from Lukáš against it; around the pool if there are."

[Carter Roth] Danicka had taken a moment to watch Carter, a brief moment, but a moment none the less and Carter had met her gaze. But unlike her, he took little away from it other then his own irritation. He listened to the garou make nice with the kinswoman, and why wouldn't they? She was the mate of Wyrmbreaker, one of the most potent Garou in the Sept a princess with her prince.

The fact that she had asked for him had surprised him initially. When, having seen all the others in the room, it surprised him even more when the woman asked Carter to go for a walk with her. Suspicion flooded in at that moment but the Anti Kin did not immediately say no, instead he nodded slowly and pushed up from his seat and in one hefty gulp downed ever last drop of whiskey in his glass.

"I've gone for walks round the block and the spirits never got pissy before, lets get outta here. I need a smoke anyways." He moves then, moves towards her without looking back. Infact he almost, almost seemed relieved to be getting out of that living room.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Guys, I'm sorry, Sarita finds a way to excuse herself for at least the next little bit. The scene's gotten too big for and I'm still stuck working, I can't keep track right now. Assume that Sarita says yes to Maddox raiding the fridge if he's living here and is about to answer Ivan, but then gets a phone call and has to step away to take it. I'll bring her back in when I can]]

[Danicka Musil] [Aww. Take it easy! Come back soon!]

[Ivan Press] [aw, no worries! i'm all tired and @_@ anyway *dies* i think i'ma switch Ivan for Lukas to hang out with mads, though!]

The discussion doesn't get too far -- Sarita gets a call, and Ivan glances at his watch. "I'd love to stay, but unfortunately I need to take care of some matters of my own. Maddox, it was interesting meeting you. Do me a favor and give this to Sarita when she's off the phone, will you?" He hands over a calling card - translucent plastic, very trendy. "Tell her to call me anytime.

"Goodnight, folks."

[Slaughter] (going to write a big ole setting post, stay tuned!)

[Max] [i can't actually be here -- i'm heading out in a bit! but i'ma leave this NPC logged in to take notes for Ivan (aka take a transcript *LOL*) til I get back!]

[Max] Arriving at 7pm on the dot, a sharply dressed, fine-featured woman takes a seat in a corner, pulls out a tablet and a stylus, clicks a button and begins to take notes on the proceedings. If asked, she introduces herself as Maxine, personal assistant to Mr. Ivan Press, here on his behalf until he can put in a personal appearance.

She does not otherwise engage in the conversations.

[and i'm off! see you guys in a few hours!]

[Slaughter] Hill House - a large, rambling mansion in Cabrini Green, looking somewhat out of place amidst the projects. One would like to call it a beacon of hope, but truly, it is too short of funds, too short of volunteers, too short of everything to truly shine a light in Chicago. Perhaps, though, it beats back the darkness, just a little. So those who work here tell themselves. Maybe they are making a difference.

The building houses, among other things, a shelter, daycare and after school programs, a rather tired looking basketball court and a garden gone defunct. Through it's main lobby, they know, through directions to proceed to the second level. If there is an elevator, it is well hidden, so instead it is up stairs to narrow and shadowy hallways and to the door number which marks their meeting area.

The ceiling is high and there are large bay windows with the drapes - old and faded - are drawn. This had once been a place of opulence, and the signs of it still linger within the mansion by way of its fixtures - the grand staircase, the large windows, impressive for the 1930s. The vaulted, if now dusty ceilings.

The room itself is rather plain. Instead of stylish artwork there are a few children's finger paintings stuck up here or there and a banner that says: "Show of Hands 2011" with a bevy of hand imprints done in garish hues of paint, people's names, illegibly stenciled in. In the corner is a pile of what appears to be broken outdoor toys - a few bent hula hoops, a flattened basket ball and a Tonka dump trunk with its wheels bent out of shape.

Beyond that, the room is rather empty, perhaps startling so. There are very few chairs upon which to sit - none at all, in fact except for two out of the way sofa chairs, looking whole but careworn. A large round folding table in the centre of the room simply sits there, unadorned by seating. On it is paper, some standard letter size, but a few much larger, as if they were taken from a drawing easel. Pens, pencils and markers are there as well.

Imogen leans against the table absently, a smart phone in hand, though as anyone enters, she will look up.

It appears very much like the doctor has come her directly from work - charcoal slacks with a dark blue blouse, her blazer folded and taking up a small edge of the table where she's laid it.

[Sweeney] [Kai is ridiculously tired, but may show up later. This is just to let everyone know that Danicka's there, in the background. (with permission)]

Maxine isn't the only figure sequestered quietly off to the side. Dani&+269;ka Musil arrives, likely dressed in an outfit that costs more than most people's monthly rent, is there, as well. As she said when she accepted the position of sept liaison, she's here to work alongside her fellow kinfolk.

[C.J. Nash] Nash was making good time insofar as showing up when Imogen impressed upon him the meeting was meant to begin. He parked the truck in the lot, got out, and started walking towards the building, and he would have been five minutes early, perhaps, if he hadn't parked ridiculously far away and had to walk across the uneven, poorly-lit lot by himself to get to the building.

He never shows up.

[SORRY MEI]

[Jackson Montgomery] He's there a little bit early and has picked out a good spot next to the table, where he has a good vantage point. The Gaian kin is dressed in his usual, casual preppy-with-Boehmian-hints style, and he has a tablet PC in his hands to take notes on. He smiles and nods to Imogen as he takes his position, waiting for the others to arrive.

[Roman Turner] When he entered, it was quietly with a nod to Imogen before he just as quietly went to a far corner of the room where the shadows were deepest to slide down against the floor, seating himself there.

[Roman Turner] ((And if I had seen Jackon's post first, he would of nodded to his kin.))

[Amunet Knezevic] Amy is there because she's been told it would be a show of support, period. After the conversation with Lukas she's not sure that it's such a good idea, but won't be blamed for not making an effort.

No good deed goes unpunished, after all.

Making her way in, she scouts the room from the doorway before moving to stand next to Jackson.

[Sweeney] Milo Sweeney is one of the earlier arrivals, but he doesn't immediately head for the room upstairs. The meeting starts at about the time his sister leaves this place, after a day in the shelter, either helping or being helped, by the workers here. It depends on the day, really. Alex looks a little like her brother, with brown hair and wide blue eyes, a touch closer to "plain" than "pretty." Some may even see her, as brother and sister share a few quiet words, Milo reaching out to squeeze her shoulder briefly, before they part, Ragabash heading up the stairs.

He enters the room, nodding briefly to Roman, and to Jackson, and moves to where he's out of the way but can still have a view of the table and papers.

[Rain McKellar] The slight Gaian kinswoman is not the first of them to arrive, but she is earlier than she expected to be. Possibly because rehearsals ended early, or because public transit was running (gasp) on time. She's dressed more nicely today than usual, perhaps in deference to the meeting's commanding voice, or perhaps for some outside and inscrutable reason. Rain enters wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt. Her taupe raincoat is folded over one arm. Her messenger bag hangs from one shoulder.

Jackson gets a warm smile, and a little lift of her chin but when Amunet slides in beside him, Rain does not go over to join him. She takes a moment to make eye contact with Imogen, and if the Renowned kinswoman hints at where she might best stand, goes that way. Otherwise she'll take up an unmanned sector of the table. Roman gets a smile, too. Oh, and also Milo.

(*posts before anyone else can add in and make me edit this again.*)

[Roman Turner] Rain got a return smile as Roman unfolded from the seated position he was in to wander over towards Milo where he nodded a greeting and settled in next to him.

[Owen DeTerizzi] *Owen's happy the meeting is at the hill house. Happy to be at the meeting? Not so much. Owen isn't happy to be anywhere these days, running on fumes and tired as hell, covered in dirt as he ambles in. The theurge makes his presence known, moves to speak briefly with Imogen, and takes a position at the back of the room to sit near Milo and Michael. Where he stays, barely awake and unresponsive to questioning for the duration of the meeting, occasionally checking his cell to ensure no one's had a crisis or gone into labor or decided to run off with a one eyed fomori named AL. At one point - there may be snoring. Someone please nudge him. Snoring is rude.*

[Michael Carroll] Michael slips in alone, pausing a moment beyond the threshold of the door to examine his surroundings. He spots Milo and grins, crossing over to stand by his new packmate. He does not want to disturb the oppressive silence of the room, and so does not shout a hearty greeting. Instead, there is simply a quick elbow nudge exchanged as he leans to mumble in Milos ear.

[Owen DeTerizzi] Reports to Imogen. "Doctor Slaughter. My name is Riddle Me this. Owen, if you prefer. I'm the one making the rooftop garden at the brotherhood. IF I continue to get steady help everyday from kin and garou, it should be up to code in time for inspection. Thats all I have to report that'll likely impact your meeting. "
to†Slaughter

[Sweeney] Rain's smile is returned warmly, with a slight nod of greeting. Roman's approach is met warmly, too, but less so. They're brothers, after all. Bound by tribe if not by blood. When Michael and Owen near, the quiet Gaian stands a little straighter, shoulders squaring, the corners of his mouth quirking unmistakably upward. He's in the midst of a gathering, hanging toward the outskirts, but still filled with an overwhelming sense of belonging.

Michael leans in to whisper, and Milo huffs a laugh, and nods once.

[Jack Hill] Jack is a stranger to most. He shows up, though - a tall, scruffy guy wearing a sports coat over a t-shirt and jeans, and old white sneakers. He has a dirty blond beard that he has trimmed recently, and dirty blond hair that is well cut tonight, and poorly styled. He looks a bit like he just rolled out of bed, or perhaps like he took off a baseball cap halfway between the subway and Hill House. An old army-green messenger bag is through over one shoulder. The canvas is well-frayed, lighter in places where he's used bumper stickers are art, then pulled them away later. A folded black umbrella swings from one of the O-rings.

Jack does not choose an out of the way spot. He comes right up to the round table and glances down at the paper on the round table in the center of the room, perusing it, maybe looking for the sign-in sheet, reaching for his phone from an inside pocket of the jacket as he does so. This reveals a bit more of his t-shirt, which appears to show Lady Liberty servicing the millionaire figure dude from monopoly. On her knees.

[Slaughter] She is a slight figure - petite and slender. Her arms, faintly visible beneath the sleeves of her silk blouse are defined, and there is very little suggestion of softness. Imogen is a woman hewn strong over time.

As people begin to enter, she lowers her phone, setting it aside on her blazer. No one is smiled at or welcomed audibly, but when Rain comes to join her, she does not dissuade the Gaian from coming up to the central table; whatever it's purpose, it appears to be communal.

When Owen approaches, she straightens from the table, her gaze fixing briefly on the Garou as he speaks.

"Ta," she says, before he walks away.

Briefly, she glances about the room, considering them before a smirk flickers. "I daresay this is th'quietest gatherin' o' th'Blood I've seen in some time.

"Just gi' it a bit longer -" a glance toward Jack as he enters, neatly making her point for her, "as it seems we've still got others headin' in."

[Alexander Truman] (Kyle is attending but will be in the background doing his usual ghost routine : )

[Janis Ian] Others were filing in, it was a last minute decision for Janis Ian to show up. The Fenrir showing up more out of her own curiosity, she runs a hand to smooth out the wetness from damp auburn hair. An eyebrow arched in Roman's direction as she dips her head in a quick nod to the Gaian No Moon. The Rotagar finds a spot to make herself cozy, tilting her head to count the number of Ragabash that has promptly filled the room with a small smirk.

[Roman Turner] Janis got a flash of teeth and a crinkling of the corners of Roman's eyes as he returned her nod with a smile instead.

[Slaughter] (clout+politics)
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 4, 6, 9, 10, 10, 10
to†Owen DeTerizzi

[Michael Carroll] Michael watches as more people file in, and chuckles quietly at Imogens observation of the gatherings decidedly subdued nature. Another elbow is jabbed roughly in Milos ribs, another murmured statement whispered as something small and metal is shoved in the Gaians hand.

[Alexander Truman] He'd been given the directions and despite all his planning he still ended up being late. Stupid last minute appeals and paperwork always causing problems. Given he had no time to change he's rocked up in his business attire. The black jacket unbuttoned so he can sit down. A look around the room as he takes a note of those present. A nod to Roman when he spots him and he takes up a spot just out of the way but close enough to be involved. He was mostly here to watch and learn tonight.

[Sweeney] [dex + stealth: flask? what flask? ¨_¨]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5, 8, 8, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2

[Jack Hill] The scruffy - well, near-stranger - turns and glances at Imogen as she speaks, then looks back to survey the rest of the room. The glance he gives seems defined by the ballcap he's not wearing, the way he lifts his chin just fractionally higher than neutral, watching as the others drift into the corners, form their neat little unspoken alliances. He considers the tableau for a long minute as if he were studying one of those endless painting of Dutch burghers in the Reichsmuseum, then slips his phone back into his jacket, walks over to Imogen and Rain, and holds out a hand.

To Imogen. "Imogen Slaughter?" A brief pause, a glance at Rain as he tries to decide which is which. There's ink on his fingers, newsprint ink. "Jack Hill." His voice is low. "Good to meet you."

[Roman Turner] Alexander received a smile also in return to his nod. A smile and a little two fingers touched to the brow, salute.

[Slaughter] Adara enters as well, lingering near the edges of the gathering, silent and listening.

[Owen DeTerizzi] [per alert +1 diff fricken exhausted : FLASK?!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Sweeney] Milo feels something small and metallic find its way between his fingers. His brows lift, and he turns to look at Michael. Then he darts a look about the room, takes a slight step back, turning slightly so that when he lifts the flask for a quick, short swig, it's out of the way. Liquid burns its way down his throat, but he manages, somehow, to keep from coughing or sputtering. Before straightening, he darts another look about the room, and passes the flask back.

Nothing to see here, people. Just a couple of Ragabashes, watching quiet. Nothing to be concerned about at all.

[Sweeney] [edit: watching quietLY, gah!]

[Simon] Simon would enter... Perhaps a little behind the others but he was here as he said he would be. This matter required careful attention and Simon would need to be here to make certain suitable attention is directed in those directions it needs to be.

For the Moment the Shadow Lord would say nothing. He would enter quietly and find himself a seat in the back... When the time came he would speak up but for now he was going to watch.

[Owen DeTerizzi] *His packmates, chintzy bastards they are - go unnoticed -even as they pass a flask back and forth beside him. Owen's head dropping towards his chest as the tall Glasswalker struggles to remain attentive. A grunt with the effort of keeping his eyeballs open.*

[Rain McKellar] When Jack asks after Imogen, Rain's head tilts slightly toward the rowan-haired kinswoman. After Dr. Slaughter has confirmed or denied her identity, the younger woman offers him a hand to shake, despite the ink.

"Rain McKellar," she says. Her voice is likewise low, but warm, and still somewhat resonant. There's something about her smile that feels inclusive, welcoming, even in a tense and silent room like this.

She resists the urge to fidget, or look around at the others while they wait.

[Izzy Montoya] Well, it WAS quiet. Subdued. Expectant. Curious. Cautious. And quiet - right up until now.

"JesusMaryMotherofFuckingHELL, Finn!" Enter one Detective Izzy Montoya, phone to her ear, apparently discussing world peace with her co-worker and friend.

She, much as Imogen, has come directly from work. Business casual - slacks, tailored blouse, a blazer, and a bulge at the small of her back that is most certainly a weapon - and most certainly not the only one she carries into the meeting. Her strides are long, her features strong, her tired exasperation one of familiarity for the voice on the other end of the call.

She looks around, quickly, nods to Imogen.

"Just fuckin' handle it. I'm MIA for a couple hours. Call if it's an emereancy, and Susan being willing to gie you a fuckin' blowjob don't fuckin count." She hangs up, and settles.

Ahhh. Quiet again.

[Slaughter] On the table, Jack can see several blueprints laid out amidst the various other paper for writing on. Beyond the blueprints there is little else written.

Imogen reaches out to take his hand when it is offered, neatly answering his question. "A pleasure," she says, her voice accented, European, though most Americans have a difficulty placing it.

(okay, officially writing the "Start up meeting post now")

[Mac] Who knows how she found out about the gathering. Maybe Michael told her, or she'd caught wind of it via some other means. Whatever the case may be, Lillian MacNeil is present and accounted for, filing into Hill House wrapped in a comfortable grey tunic and worn jeans. She's slight of build, but the heeled boots she wears lend her an extra 3 inches or so. She's carrying a Blackberry in one hand while the other holds fast to a very simple set of keys with a local car rental's tag hanging of the end.

Her hair is a wild mane of pale brown and blonde shades and while she doesn't bother trying to set order to the unruly strands, she does tuck sections of waves behind her small ears.

Quiet, unobtrusive and just bloody curious Mac takes up a seat near the back or a free spot near a wall on which she can lean and listen.

[Michael Carroll] Michael glances over his shoulder curiously at Mac as she takes up a position against the wall. Brow arched, he takes a nip from the flask before motioning her over to join him and his packmates. "Didn't expect t' see you here. Thought you were leavin' at th' end o' th' week t' head back for Boston?"

[Mac] Settling behind the whiskey loving Fiann, she offers the faintest of wry twists to her mouth. Light brown eyes lift and survey the room before returning to Michael's face and offering him a very simple wink of one eye.

"I am. But I'm coming back. You'd miss my three hundred dollar bottles of scotch if I left for good." Her voice is pitched low and she leans forward a few degrees to speak to the Garou. That said, she settles once more with her shoulders pressed to the wall and her keys and phone still cradled in her hands.

[Slaughter] She releases Jack Hill's grip, her attention drifting about the room once more, then down to her wrist. It is a little past the time that had been given to everyone, but not so late as all that.

"All right," she says, pitching her voice to be heard. She has a pleasant voice, does Imogen, a singer though most do not know it. "I imagine most o' you who do not know ha' figured out that I'm Imogen Slaughter and th'person who called yeh all together." Pale skinned she has brilliantly red hair, and incredibly dark eyes. The latter is barely maintained chaos, held back and pinned in place, coiled at the nape of her neck. Despite this, hair has escaped at her temple, getting into her eyes, which she moves away with a practiced, thoughtlessly movement of her head.

"The reason I asked all o' yeh here is there is a risk t'both Caern and Brotherhood tha' should not be dealt with in silos. We could pass on what we are doing and what we ha' done through the Liaisons, but frankly, s'a complicated game o' telephone we do not need to play. Better t'get into a room, know who is doing what, who can do what, and if yer particular skills, talents or connections overlap with someone else, s'better that yeh know it and can work with them, than t'ha' you both working, possibly at cross purposes."

She has not mentioned her tribe, but every single Garou in the room would say: Fianna. The mark of her ancestry goes deeper than her bones and has touched every part of her from her hair to the way she holds her head. There are heroes in her blood.

She pauses a moment, looking over everyone.

"A company wi' connections to the mob ha' purchased land near the Caern. They are likely polluting the water, riskin' a holy place o' the Nation and giving th'Wyrm a foothold we cannot afford to permit.

"Now, t'start off with. I'd like to know what each o' you know you can do to help."

(go ahead and post - regardless of sequence - we will assume that everyone remembers kindergarden and can speak in turn. *grin*. If there's a back and forth, though, hold your post until that's completed to avoid confusion. We'll see how this works and modify it as we go.)

[Jackson Montgomery] Jackson, taking notes on the tablet, raises his hand as he speaks.

"Hello, everyone. Jackson Montgomery, Child of Gaia kin." He nods around the room and looks at Imogen.

"I'm a film student, and I've got experience with working within the medium of the media. I don't really have the contacts at this point, but if we have a way to disseminate it, I can work on the public relations side. Put together activism videos, PSA's against Black Sun. They can go online and go viral, and if we have the resources--I can contribute some there--we could even buy time on public access channels to put them up. The more we get people's hearts and minds changed, the harder it will be, as the protests have shown."

[Slaughter] (btw - if your PC doesn't speak, can you please just toss out a quick note? I don't want to move on and turn out to have accidentally shut someone up!)

[Janis Ian] Janis is here for observation purposes, there will be no speaking unless needed.

[Mac] There'll be no input from Mac. She'll listen quietly but remain silent and still near the back.

[Izzy Montoya] "Detective Izzy Montoya, CPD Homicide. You have names of the mob/connections? I can what I can dig up, unofficially. If I need to go more public, we'll take stock before hand." Her voice is strong, without being loud, now. All business.

[Sweeney] Milo's part of the Ragabash contingent, trying not to giggle toward the back. He's mostly here out of curiosity, and to see if more information or a plan of action for Ragabash shenanigans is hashed out.

[Amunet Knezevic] Her fingers run in her hair and she glances around the room before speaking up.

"Amunet Knezevic. I've taken on organizing the kinfolk. I'll be happy to pass on anything from tonight to the other kin when we meet next."

[Rain McKellar] Rain's attention shifts to whomever is speaking, but the girl at the central table does not speak up to offer introductions or information. To the True in the room, her blood is silent. There's no outward indicator of her heritage or Tribe. So long as she keeps her mouth shut, there's not a lot to give away her strengths or weaknesses. The closest circle around the table, perhaps, may notice there's more than quiet watchfulness to her.

If it wasn't such a dangerous and foolhardy idea, she'd probably make a compelling face for those activist spots Jackson suggested.

[Owen DeTerizzi] [Owen's just listening. He gave Imogen his info already. He may or may not be awake.]

[Jack Hill] The only remaining patch on Jack's bag is the Yale coat of arms: Lux et Veritas. It's small, not visible from a distance except as a blue and white smear against the olive green canvas.

"Jack Hill." He's standing close to Imogen and Rain, their introductions brief, cut off somewhat with Izzy's rather spectacular entrance. The young man (older than he looks) towers over the pair of kinswoman, but lacks the sheer physical strength so many Garou earn so young. He has the long, lanky body of a long-distance runner, though, perfectly comfortable in his skin. "I'm the Director of Community Outreach for AREIU here in Chicago, which is grander than it sounds. We're a grant- and union-funded non-profit focused on direct democracy issues.

"My roommate's editor of the the City Paper - the one homeless folks sell for a dollar - and I've taken the liberty of putting together a flyer about BlackSun and crude repurposing. I'm pretty familiar with the SEIU local here, and a few of the other unions. Have some contacts in local politics, too, to put to use. I've done some digging around and some minor agitating along the way, spreading the word to various stakeholders - " a quick, wry smirk mostly hidden behind his beard. "And have some other ideas that can wait as we move on."

[Sweeney] [obtw, Milo would of course have reported information from his scouting turns to Roman and any other appropriate parties long before now.]

[Sofie Janssen] "Hey," the tall blonde in the back corner speaks up, "I'm Sofie Janssen."

"I run with some kinfolk and humans. You know, we do all those supposed eco-terrorist stunts." Her gaze flits over some of the gather then back to Imogen again. "Some of us have been down on the picket line. We're willing to help out any way we can. But we don't have any pull in the city. Just a bunch of enthusiastic protesters that can dig up some targets."

[Slaughter] While everyone speaks, Imogen's attention is on them totally. She has a rather unsettling, direct gaze. Each speaker is categorized. Considered. Then she moves on. The only variation is as Amunet speaks, her eyebrow shifting slightly, before settling again on to Jack as he speaks. And on again.

[Alexander Truman] He was jotting some notes down as he listens. This was all new for him so he was gathering as much information as possible. Casually he stands when there's a moment free.

"Evening all. Alexander Truman, otherwise known as Spin-Doctor, Glasswalker New Moon, new to the area and more than willing to offer a hand. Got a few people I can discuss air time with as well as check into some of the legal and political aspects of what's happening. Main specialty is public relations on corporate levels but also good at tracking down info. Let me know hos I can help and you got it."

With a casual smile he sits back down and resumes taking notes.

[Luana Kirchmann] She's late. It happens. The small kinswoman makes her way in, dressed nicely in a suit pants and a blouse. She's carrying a small hang bag over her shoulder and smells of perfume and stale cigarettes. Seeking to blend into the back ground, she takes a seat to catch up on what's being said.

[Roman Turner] He spoke up from the shadows near the back.

"Roman Turner. Some of us New Moons have been keeping silent watch on the comings and goings at the construction site. I'm sure we'll all be happy to help wherever needed. So far there's not been a lot to report on what we've seen except for what looked like the same sort of folk what bought the land seemed to be taking their own construction materials in the middle of the night, stirring up trouble."

[Michael Carroll] At this stage of the meeting Michael will remain silent. Romans explanation of Ragabash activities is more than sufficient to explain his place in this. He stands between his packmates, arms crossed over his chest as he watches and listens. He pays close attention as each of the others, primarily Kinfolk, stand up and introduce themselves. Occasionally he will lean to pass a thought or observation onto one of his packmates, but for now he does not address the assembled.

[Slaughter] (if you haven't spoken but are going to, please IM me to let me know! otherwise, I am going to continue. it should take me about 5-10 minutes to write my post, so you have that long to stop me!)

[Kristen Burke] She arrived, a little late. She's been watching the construction site trying to gather information and had to finish a consult with Maddox before coming but she made it at least. When she saw that they were giving introductions and heard Roman's comment about the construction site. "Hi, Kristen Burke. Sorry I'm late. A couple of us Theurges have been watching the Construction site from the other side and while we haven't really seen anything unusual within the site itself...it's drawing seriously bad mojo and Strife and Envy spirits are coming, drawn by the work on the site. They are dark and undoubtedly will cause trouble if not diverted. I've just come from gathering that information."

[Luana Kirchmann] "Luana."

"I work for a company that employs private investigators and security consultants. I have contacts on the street, including those in organized crime, the finance sector, some Garou and Kin I can pull if needed, and --" A glance to Izzy then back. "I don't think I'm needed where the law is concerned."

"If you need some information from computer systems, I can help there, too."

[Slaughter] A few moments of silence passes after Luana speaks. Imogen's gaze moves over the group. They are a rather decent number - twenty in all, including herself [and NPCs]. All standing, though most not around the table so much as spread about the room, finding places where they are not in the way, but can still see.

"Roman," she says, glancing at the teenager, her gaze even. "When you say tha' they are taking materials in the middle of the night, you mean tha' they are bringing them in, is that correct? Not out?"

[Roman Turner] "No ma'am, they are taking them out. Then when the missing supplies are noticed in the morning by the construction workers, they are pointing fingers in the logical direction, towards the protesters. A clever move really if ya think about it."

[Luana Kirchmann] [two tags are too much. sticking Luana under Sofie's tag.]

[Jackson Montgomery] [[FYI, Ang's computer just went full-on belly-up. Assume that Amy's there, listening and taking notes]]

[Owen DeTerizzi] *A low chuckle from the theurge in the back. Oh look. A sign of life.*

[Slaughter] Her gaze is briefly heavy on the Child of Gaia Ragabash. That she is thinking is almost audible. That she is about to ask another question is clear but before she has even opened her mouth, she reins it back, a line forming between her copper eyebrows.

"All right," she says, tamping down her curiosity.

"In this room, what we ha' are people who can get information out to the media and galvanize the public," Jackson Montgomery, Jack Hill, Alexander Truman. "We ha' someone wi' connections to the unions and local politics," Jack Hill, "We ha' someone wi' the police," Izzy, "We have someone with experience in- " a pause, before she adds a word clearly taken directly from Sofie's statement - slightly amused, the smirk flickering, "supposed eco-terrorist stunts," Sofie, "we ha' someone with connections to organized crime and financing," Luana, "and people who are good with computers," Danicka, Luana.

"We have Ragabash who are known fer their scouting and Theurges who can work on th'other side while we work on this side. And," a faint lift of her chin toward Simon in the back, perhaps with a distinct space around him in testimony to his rage. "The Wyrmfoe fer war.

"The way I see it is this - our goal, and by that I mean the kinfolk - is t'deter and slow down and hopefully stop the incursion. We make it unprofitable. We make it bad publicity. We make it draw the notice o' the law enforcement. If scouts can help us wi' any information they might be able t'find - particularly in regards to illegal goings on, tha' would be appreciated.

"Our secondary goal is t'find out as much as we can about what is going on an' why. Rather coincidental, I would think," a smirk, "tha' something like this happens so close to the Full Blood's most prized place in Chicago. One imagines there is something behind it. And if we can find tha'," a lift of her chin indicates Simon, "they can wage war.

"Does anyone have any thoughts?"

[Janis Ian] Janis shifts in her chair, running a hand along her jaw thoughtfully. She pursed her lips together, "Do ye 'ave a name of a person or a company that's responsible for what's been 'appening. What sources 'ave we exhausted in trying to figure out more information?"

[Rain McKellar] The Gaian girl in the front row, so to speak, clears her throat quietly and then looks to Imogen, Jack and Jackson. When she speaks, even just loudly enough to fill this room, her voice is resonant and warm. Clear. Trained and well-inflected. It has a soft Southern tinge.

"The theater company I joined recently has a lot of talented and compelling people," she says, to the organizers. "And I know a fair number of local musicians, mostly folk, jazz, and singer/song-writer types. I may be able to connect you with artists to use in your adverts or videos, especially as Ms. Danicka asked us to keep our own people out of the spotlight as much as possible."

[Michael Carroll] Michael shrugs and steps forward, leaving behind whatever game it is he's playing with his packmates for more serious matters. When he speaks, it is more to Roman than the rest of the gathering. "We could start runnin' two-man watches, with th' understandin' that one o' the pair will trail anyone who fits the 'suspicious' criteria. Might be able t' start workin' th' trail backwards, y' know?"

[Owen DeTerizzi] *A clearing of his throat. Owen speaking flatly from where he's puddling into unconsciousness at the back of the room, on the heels of his packmate.*

Anyone not doing anything related to pulling strings or investigation - I can always use sane able bodied people to help finish the rooftop terra-forming on the brotherhood. The quicker we're done, the sooner I can cross check it with building codes before inspection.

[Jack Hill] "I have a few things to throw out there," Jack says, still standing in the center of the room, glancing around as he does so. "First of all, BlackSun bought the land in question from a company called WCH holdings. Seems to me it would be helpful to having someone look into that company and its background. See what connections you can dig up." Here he's specifically looking at Luana.

"Second," this to Izzy, "the workers on site seem to be running some sort of workers' comp scam. They get injured, file for benefits, and come back to work under a different company, double-dipping. I'm not sure if that's your purview, or someone else's, but maybe you would know where to report that sort of thing if it's not a strictly criminal matter.

"Third, I think the protests that are ongoing are important, but they've been pretty well fed and are likely to be self-sustaining. My thought is that if we are going to have a real impact, though, we need to go outside the realm of the usual anarcho-syndicalists. You've gotta get the community as a whole up in arms. You have to make the more conservative elements in the city see BlackSun as a threat to their livelihoods - tourism, business impacts, decreasing property values, that sort of thing. I think that's where the greater part of our advocacy should be focused, at this point.

"ON the Chamber of Commerce, the commercial real estate developer, the small businessman and homeowners up and down Lake Michigan. Local authorities are like to turn a blind eye on protestors, but when their major donors start questioning how this place is going to impact their planned condo developments - well, then the zoning board gets interested."

[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow, slightly, then nods. Not her area of expertise, of course, but she can at least do some digging and planting ideas in the heads of those who know what to do with said information.

[Sofie Janssen] Luana nods at Jack. This is something she can do. "Can also have individuals investigated."

[Alexander Truman] He's taking notes as people throw out more information. Working on a list of things to check into as he looks to Jack as he offers more information.
"If you can get details on the thefts we can trace that back as well. There's laws covering embezlment in construction sites as well as fraud in relation to workers comp. Plus on the political front I'll do some digging and pass on info. Who's the best person for me to help out in this stuff? "

He doesn't know the chain of command at the moment so no harm in asking. Looks to Own and nods.
"I'll give a hand and also check the regulations for you at the same time."

[Roman Turner] "Jack has a point there. Back home they build one of these kind of places, couple miles outside town. This particular one recycled a lot of animal by products from the local turkey plant in with it's other things. City finally shut it down because the nearby friendly little tourist town started to smell like a sewage plant that backed up. And that was just from the stench of the place."

His gaze shifted from Jack to Michael.

"And your's is a good idea. Also maybe getting pictures with phones or a little video would be helpful if possible. If we could get a shot of faces or license plates, Dective Montoya might be able to get something from that."

"Doctor Slaughter is as we all know, right about the reason this is so close to the caern. Whoever is working the strings from the shadows is out to hit us in the heart."

He nodded to Alexander.

"Yeah my thoughts were, they steal from themselves, call in the cops for a report and file with insurance to get their money back. Likely just bringing the same supplies back in to use."

[Slaughter] Janis finds the answer to her question, at least in part, in Jack Hill's comment. Imogen adds, looking directly at the Rotagar, "I don't believe we've exhausted anything yet. S'a bit too preliminary fer that."

A glance to Rain when she speaks, then her attention moves to Jackson Montgomery, "I imagine yeh could do somethin' wi' that, couldn't yeh?"

[Janis Ian] Janis nods, "Just checking, though, my brother works for the local fire department, we also 'ave another kin I could seek out that also works as a fire fighter as well, perhaps something in that area could be of use?"

[Michael Carroll] Michael clears his throat after a moment and asks the question that's been burning in his head since Jack stopped speaking.

"Uhm...what's an arachno sindelist?" Pronounced just like that.

[Jackson Montgomery] He nods to Rain, smiling a bit. "That would be useful. If you can hook me up with some of those people to use in PSA and online videos, I can promise it'll be actual paid work for them."

[Roman Turner] He grinned with Michael's question cause he had been wondering too.

[Rain McKellar] "Sure," she says, in an aside to her tribesmate. "Give me a couple days to ask around, and I'll let you know what turns up."

Then her attention is pulled to the question from the edge of the room for a moment, and back to whatever Jack's answer will be.

[Jack Hill] "Arachno sandelist?" Jack returns to Michael, a brief flash of his teeth in a grin framed by the beard. "Spider that wears sandals. Rare breeds in the Sahara evolved the adaptation to save them from the burning sands.

"Anarcho-syndicalists, on the other hand, are anarchists focused in the trades union movement, who believe in the overthrow of capitalism and state power in favor of democratic rule by organized workers. But I was using it as affectionate slang for the sign-wavers. Professional activitists. Folks who wear t-shirts with tie-dyed portraits of Che Guevara and get their history of him from their college's production of Evita and the local dude in the head shop."

[Sweeney] At that answer, Milo grins quite openly, and elbows Michael in the ribs.

[Sofie Janssen] Sofie snorts some laughter at Jack's first comment, and goes to sit by Roman with a small nod of her chin in greeting.

[Jack Hill] "Not - " with a flash of a grin toward Sofie. "That there's anything wrong with sign waving. I myself have waved many a sign. Signed many a petition. Tilted against many a fucking windmill."

[Sofie Janssen] Her teeth flash back at Jack. "Not just about the signs," she tells him, grinning broader.

[Simon] Simon finally decides to speak up."If the Italians are behind this whole operation then we should also look around at the other organizations in this city. There are others who don't want the Scarpescis to succeed we just need to find out their names and get them on board in some way or another. If we can cost these assholes millions that's just good business as far as their rivals are concerned."He finally says to the group.

"I am sorry but we've got Camera crews practically on top of our Caern, that shit is not good for any of us. If we can find ways this whole thing can be swept under the rug discreetly then I would advise looking in that direction. Right now we're holding back but when push comes to shove... I'm not gonna stand by and let these assholes get their fingers on our caern. If they push any harder we will have no choice but to push back. I will just as soon kill these motherfuckers as blink... They're a threat to our Caern. However this is all gonna go much easier if we can do this discreetly."He continues.

"So I suggest someone finds the Russians... If you've got connections. See what they think on the whole matter."He says before looking in the direction of Izzy."You're a Homicide detective... Well see if you can't get assigned to the investigation of Shiela Turbacle... Mob killed her looking for the disk. Then they covered the shit up to make it look like it was something involving drugs. Hutts gave the order..."He says back to her."So you might have an in right there."He adds.

He then looks around at the others and decides to take a step or two back and settles in to his seat."I know a few locations they frequent and I can get the names of any businesses connected to Mister Hutts if you need them..."He offers to pretty much anyone in general.

[Simon] [Shiela Turnbacle!]

[Michael Carroll] Milos elbow-accompanied grin illicits an arched brow from his packmate. He mutters something to the Gaian before focusing his attention on Simon. A lot of what the Wyrmfoe says is news to Michael. "If any o' those frequented locations are bars, I volunteer t' do some investigatin'. I fit in well with that scene."

[Slaughter] For a moment, Imogen considers Janis's question - "Perhaps. Check wi' them and see what their thoughts are, or send 'em in my direction. Otherwise, I'll think on it a bit, shall I?"

Her attention turns to Simon, as he speaks.

"As we ha' already reached the point tha' the land is purchased, and construction has begun, I think you should consider th'caern already violated. Anything we do will o' course try to minimize risk to the caern, but if yeh think tha' we can get this done without negative publicity o' what is going on, you're mistaken.

"The Caern, as I understand it has wards in place fer its protection. I strongly recommend strengthening them as much as possible, while we will, in turn, try to minimize publicity. However, it is very likely that negative public opinion is one o' our strongest weapons. Politicians become afraid o' losing votes. Companies become afraid of losing customers. Unions are made up o' the public and become afraid of their members striking. Et cetera.

"Rest assured, none o' us ha' any desire to put the caern at more risk than it already is."

[Janis Ian] "How much was the land purchased for? Is there a way to buy it back some how? As to another inquiry, why the 'ell wasn't it under the ownership of a Garou or a kin in the first place to prevent such problems from ever occurring?"

[Sweeney] Milo doesn't step forward, but he leans a bit, and he pitches his voice so that it can be heard.

"I think it's too late to worry about why it hasn't been done before. If we can somehow push them out, that's something that should be considered.

"Has anyone found out what they're building?"

[Sweeney] [edit: what they're SUPPOSED to be building!]

[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow slightly, as Simon goes on, then states the obvious, than huffs a breath. Amused, most likely, because hey, it's EASY to suddenly get reassigned to a mob investigation, etc. Specially when said investigations already in the works for a while. She pushes a hand through her hair, and suddenly wants a cigarette. Badly.

"What disk? This is the first I've heard of it." Unsaid is the question why if it was something that tied into this bigger picture. "But I'll see what I can do. I can't go in guns blazing on your word, you understand. Oddly enough, my job requires proof. So gimme everything ya got - every fuckin' detail however small ya might think it is, and I'll see what I can dig up."

A beat. "Discreetly, of course."

[Izzy Montoya] (sorry that is so outa place, it wasn't refreshing. heh.)

[Slaughter] "My hope," her attention moves briefly toward Janis, "is tha' if we can either make the land unprofitable enough, or we can somehow get it reappropriated under racketeering laws, tha' we will be able to then take steps toward acquirin'. However, I don't see tha' we can even attempt to purchase it now - it's not fer sale, and I imagine it is quite profitable.

"As fer why it was fer sale in the first place," a certain tension crosses her mouth, a flicker of it across her jawline, "Fer that, you will need to talk to someone else. As far as I know, no one 'ere was responsible fer the purchasing of the land the caern was on. I believe it was managed by half-bloods of the Glass Walker tribe."

Milo speaks, Imogen's attention turns briefly toward him - she nods as he speaks, a short, sharp motion in agreement. It's too late to worry about that.

"We ha' blue prints. If nothing else, it give an impression, though discrepancies between multiple blueprints suggests obfuscation."

A pause.

"Listen," she speaks to everyone. "There are a lot o' us here. And there is a lot of information out there, and there are a lot o' things we can do, and we can move towards, and there are a lot o' opinions. What this all equals is tha' there is a lot o' opportunity fer us to all stand 'ere and talk 'till th'end o' time. We all agree we need t'resolve this.

"It would be wise, I think, fer us to set simple intentions o' what we are going to do, and then who intends t'work toward those goals. In some cases, some people may o'erlap. Clearly, we will all still work together. But we perhaps may want t'break the basic plannin' down into smaller chunks, then come back t'gether and confirm its viability and weave it t'gether.

"Fer example, law enforcement inquiries, public defamation and general investigation and research."

[Ivan Press] [*grumbles* WELL THAT WHOLE LOG IN FIRST THING WAS A WASH.]

Presently, the doors to the conference suite open. In saunters one Ivan Press, quite unabashedly late, his coat slung over his shoulder, his frame long and lean in vest and tie; matching slacks. His palette is dark tonight, wine-reds and almost-blacks. It offsets the golden fairness of his skin and the dappled-wheat of his hair. The privilege, the wealth, the fact that his personal assistant sat in the corner quietly taking notes for three hours without saying a word -- Mr. Press is unmistakably and unapologetically a Silver Fang.

He takes a seat beside Max, taking the tablet from her and swiping through it as she murmurs in his ear, appraising him of what's happened so far.

[Rain McKellar] ((I have a transcript running, I can email it to you if you like.))
to Ivan Press

[Owen DeTerizzi] *Owen nudges Milo with his elbow. Quirks his lips upward in a smug smirk. Proof he's still awake.*

[Sofie Janssen] "If we can find key players," Luana says in the break of conversation, "I can become a close friend." Though there's no smirk or smiles here, the tone rather bland, it's obvious to what she implies. "I don't have any breeding to worry about, and I don't spend much time in the company of anyone that could blow a cover."

"It's something I've done plenty of before."

[Simon] He nods at Izzy."Yeah well talk to Kora about that... I went to her about this matter a fuckin' month ago and that didn't work out too well."He finishes with a slightly bitter tone in his voice."I'll get you the information on the Flash Drive... or Imogen can handle that if you need it. Might be useful to someone."

"This is not the kind of enemy we are used to fighting... But make no mistake it is threatening our Caern. The Wyrm doesn't always come at you snarling with teeth and claws... But rest assured this is the Wyrm at work and we need to stop it before it spreads any further."

[Ivan Press] [i got one, thank you!]
to Rain McKellar

[Rain McKellar] First the Silver Fang whisks into the room, and let's be honest: Rain stands just a little straighter as she notices the intrusion. Then Simon says something vaguely less than stellar about the Jarl of the Fenrir, and the slight girl at the center table turns to look at him for a moment, with her jaw set and her dark eyes rather intent.

She has no intention of making eye contact, or speaking up, but it's clear that the Wyrmfoe has her attention. The whole of it. And that it's not an entirely pleased thing. That look slides on to Roman, then to Milo and his fellows in the corner of the room, and lastly back to Imogen who is just across the table.

[Izzy Montoya] That brow hitches higher as she bristles. She chomps back her retort though - barely. Instead she looks to Roman, dark eyes flashing.

She arches a brow, slightly. He should know how much it's costing her to keep her mouth shut right now. Especially without a cigarette in hand. The muscle at the corner of her jaw jumps as teeth grind. And she lifts her chin slightly, before calmly reaching for her phone, and flicking through the messages to keep her hands busy.

Idle hands, devil's work, etc.

[Slaughter] "Simon," Imogen speaks clearly, "this is precisely the kind of fighter half-bloods like myself and Detective Montoya and quite a few others here are very familiar wi' the fighting. For most kinfolk this is the only way we fight. Please get th'information t'both of us, and we can make sure it is properly disseminated."

She turns her attention to Luana - "I think it's somethin' we should keep in our back pocket. S'quite a risk, even wit'out breeding to go on the inside. In either case. Someone wi' computer skills and financial contacts and experience wi' organized crime can be useful for far more than charm."

[Roman Turner] Roman perked up from where he sat when Kora was mentioned. There in the shadows teeth flashed and Roman's soft hick draw sounded.

"Ain't the time and place to start rife when we are here to work together. By the same measure, ain't nice to imply ya took up this thumb drive issue with Kora and nothing's been done about it. Makes it sound more than it is when less is truly told. Though I will be sure to pass on your well wishes, Simon."

[Sofie Janssen] "Sometimes loose lips are better," she tells Imogen. "And a close informant is going to be someone you're going to want, eventually." But she nods her head. "An avenue if we get short on leads." One she obviously thinks might be essential. This seems like a long haul operation.

[Sofie Janssen] [er, last was Luana. Damnit.]

[Jack Hill] "I don't know what it really is," Jack responds to Milo. "Or what they're really doing, but they call it Crude Repurposing. Basically, recycling dirty oil into other uses. " It's really rather belated. Mostly he's staring-without-meaning to as Simon suggests they ally with the Russian mob to fling them against the Italians. And trying not to be open mouthed about it.

"I'll leave you," to Luana, " - to look into WHC more. And you," to Izzy and Alexander, " - to follow up on the fraud issues, too. I imagine an insurance or criminal investigation would delay their work that much longer. "I'm willing to work the other angle. Attacking them from the conservative angle, getting new players involved in the opposition to the facility. I've got tickets to the Children's Hospital dinner this weekend, hoping to meet Councilman Strayhan or maybe the Chamber of Commerce president. Someone like that. But I could use your help," Jackson, Rain, " - it'd be worth a bit of time investment making propaganda videos that look like they're coming from homeowners rather than environmentalists. I'd also love to pepper local talk radio with callers complaining about the impact on tourism, the beaches, their business."

Though in truth, he says all that after the back and forth with Simon is done.

[Owen DeTerizzi] *The glasswalker has to speak up. As the most connected to the human world of the tribes, he's got to throw it out there. Pushing off from the wall and rumbling lowly.*

Inconvienant Business isn't always the wyrm. Humans like to expand. They like cheap property. They like a quick easy buck, and they don't care about the environment over the bottom line. Something to consider, before you concentrate on looking for wyrm connections when your theurges say its mostly clear.

*That said, he shrugs. His skill with speaking publicly had been proven lacking at the last moot. Seems thats all he has to say on the matter.*

[Ivan Press] "Everything we've done so far," Ivan begins speaking almost the moment Max stops whispering -- speaks with the sort of utter blithe disregard for whoever else might have been speaking that only the very most privileged exhibit, "has been one collective emergency measure to delay or slow construction. Protests, dead fish, media airtime.

"What about the long term? All I've 'heard' is that the land is bought, oh well, end of the road. The most we can do is minimize damage. And that's thinking rather pessimistically, isn't it?

"Have you kinfolk have any other ideas for how to keep this area Caern-friendly for the long term? Because if not, I've got a proposal for those of you with deep pockets and friends in high places."

[Mac] She has been quiet the entire meeting. In fact, it would have been easy to forget that she was even standing in the back of the room with her slight shoulders pressed firm to the wall behind her. For whatever reason, she clears her throat and looks squarely at Imogen as she seems to be handling the meeting thus far.

"I'm not really a part of your Sept here yet, however I'm very skilled in dealing with documents and certificates and licenses and I work with a lot of people who deal with the same such things. If there's anything you need looked up or researched or .." She pauses, the edge of her mouth twitching just so. "...created I'd be happy to offer my services."

Pale eyes look to any one she might of cut off with a faint grin that whispers of I'm sorry.

[Sofie Janssen] "I think the idea is to discredit the current owners, bring the property down in value, and have someone by it as another alternative," Luana says to the Silver Fang. But clearly they're all here to talk about proposals.

[Jackson Montgomery] "That would be the hope, yeah." He says it with a nod to Sofie.

"Although, of course, any other avenues would be good too. Nothing wrong with multi-front attacks, so to speak."

[Alexander Truman] Alexander looks to Ivan with interest wondering what he has in mind

[Ivan Press] "Oh, believe me, I heard that much through my good friend here." That good friend, her duty official discharged, now regards the gathering with a bland inscrutable stare. "My question is, what next? You drive down property values, shame Black Sun into selling out, and then ... what? Hope for the best? Hope that the mob forgets about how you fucked their little business venture? Hope the next buyer, who's now buying at a reduced cost, isn't going to put up a toxic waste factory here?

" -- and can I get a glass of green tea in here?" He looks around expectantly, snaps his fingers for a servant he's sure will appear any second. It's Max that answers the call, slipping her tablet and stylus into her purse. Right away, Mr. Press, she murmurs, far too professional to betray exasperation. He turns to her with a brilliant smile. "Excellent, you always come through for me, Max. And a lemon-rose pastry -- you know, like the ones the uh ... those Germans, the Konigweisses served last Sunday? Thank you."

[Sweeney] [aw what the hell, EMPATCHEE! (watch him botch)]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
to Ivan Press

[Ivan Press] [HAH!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 3, 5, 5, 9, 10 (Failure at target 6)
to Sweeney

[Ivan Press] [*sinks*

Ivan is a little buzzed, and he's kind of deliberately being a privileged Fang ass right now. But he does actually have a plan, and he ultimately means well. Beyond that, Sweeney can't figure out his deeper motives, why he's playing it this way, etc.]
to Sweeney

[Roman Turner] "Pins and needles I tell ya. Pins and needles just waiting for ya to say more about your deep pockets speech ya started before the fill in the blank question. What I got to chip in on funds, they best hold a auction and no one else turn up. Best bring in the green tea drinkers."

[Danicka Musil] Danicka's been here since the beginning. Well-dressed, silent, her hair tied back and sitting out of the way. She's taken a couple of notes, but there's very little pen-scratching from her corner. This is not a meeting she called, but one she was invited to. Most of what she would have to say has already been said, passed along to the Kinfolk and to Matthieu directly, hopefully disseminated to the tribal and auspice alphas. She does not make the same argument a second time, but just listens to the meeting as it goes on, eyes moving calmly from one speaker to the next.

[Sorry I'm so late!]

[Sweeney] Milo, his quiet watchfulness winning through despite the closeness of his packmates, turns his pale-eyed gaze to the Silver Fang. There's a wariness about him when he looks at Ivan, something that actually eases away when everyone else starts to feel their feathers ruffled.

"I think," he says, eyes on Ivan for a moment while he addresses the room, "the hope is to run them out, and have our kin buy up what they leave behind." He looks to the kinfolk, their half-blooded cousins who fight their way through the mortal systems with their connections. "Is that right?"

[Sofie Janssen] "Yes," Luana says to Milo.

[Slaughter] (sorry, folks, trying to post, but my server is being a pain in the ass)

[Jack Hill] "She's right," Jack echoes Luana. "Anyway, we can do more than minimize damage. We can get the land rezoned for non-industrial use. Maybe turned into parkland or a beach if we get the right people involved. Reclaimed wetlands, or even an Industrial Heritage zone. There are a half-dozen possibilities. The first order of business is getting them on the way out. When that's more fully underway,"

The young man - whose blood gleams (faintly, so faintly) Fang - has a wry look of mild distaste. Cannot help it. The fucking servants. "And, if we work well enough from behind the scenes, the mob won't know who we are to strike back."

[Simon] He turns his attention on Ivan."Don't worry about the Mob after this... If they choose to keep pushing after we've finished this whole matter... They will be dealt with personally and with totality. If the Mob wants a war I will show them what the word war means. If anything they should be on their goddamn knees thanking whatever god they pray to that he has seen fit to keep me on a leash. But if they keep pushing that leash will eventually snap."He continues with a fiery gleam in his eyes.

"But you are right... We do need control of this land and for that I would start looking at the Glasswalkers, or maybe the Silver Fangs... I don't care who owns this shit but it should be under our control. This should never even have the possibility of happening again."

[Slaughter] "No," Imogen speaks evenly, "the plan would be tha' the next buyer would be 'Caern-friendly' as you put it. As we will be the ones workin' toward it, one hopes that we will ha' an inside track. This is on th'list o' priorities, rest assured.

"However," she continues, "if we do not decide on the short term prior to th'long term, we will ha' no long term to worry about. I imagine yehr advice will be rather helpful, but perhaps not before we ha' decided who is doing what."

Roman speaks, and Imogen's gaze moves briefly toward him - she fixes him with a sharp regard, before speaking again.

"Jack Hill has the right o' it fer next steps, and it should be remembered based on our kindly received advice," a flick of her attention toward Ivan, "and Danicka's feedback-" it should be noted that the European kinswoman's pronunciation of the Sept Liaison's name is not perfect, but rather closer now that she has heard the proper sounds from the Ahroun Elder, "that there needs t'be layers between us and whatever we are trying to do.

"Slow them or stop them in the short time, instill better protection of the land in the long term, and if there is wyrm involvement, find it if we can fer the Sept to mobilize against."

A flicker of her attention about the room.

"Detective Montoya, Luana and -" a glance at Mac, "I'm sorry, I don't know yehr name." A beat for the other to supply it, then she continues, "Will yeh be able to start lookin' into what legal avenues we ha' plus any inaccuracies or details we can find tha' we can provide others wi' media connections to use against them. I ha' some blueprints wi' some rather interesting differences tha' are a place t'start. Provin' they lied fer their permits, etc. and perhaps if the Ragabashes find anythin' that is suspicious they can pass it on as well.

"That way," a glance toward Jack Hill, Jackson, Rain, "You three can begin lookin' at what yeh can do with the unrest. Sofie," she includes the other kinfolk with a glance, "will also be able t'assist perhaps wi' her own contacts with the environmentalists."

[Ivan Press] [okay, hold on -- posting!]

[Jackson Montgomery] He nods a little bit when Imogen looks his way, looking to Rain, Jack and Sofie and then back.

[Ivan Press] Ivan looks at Roman for a second; a sort of blank, level look. And a blink. "I don't even know what you just said to me."

His eyes flick to Milo as he speaks. Then Jack, then Simon - Luana and Imogen. He listens. For what it's worth, for all his unabashed privilege, the Ragabash has a keen mind, a good ear. They can tell Ivan's listening to every word, his eyes glittering with alertness.

"Well, that's a start," he says. "But all that comes down to this: there's still no long-term plan with what to do. And worse, that leaves whoever buys the property directly in the mob's crosshairs. So here's my proposal:

"Urban regentrification.

"It's all the rage these days. Look at Rome. Look at New York. Look at London, San Francisco, Cape Town, Philly. The idea's simple. Take the worst part of the city and make it nice again. Level everything and rebuild. Bring in the premium grocery stores, the trendy restaurants, the up-and-coming crowd. Set up office space for corporations. Million-dollar condos for the yuppie crowd. There's no way we can convince anyone to turn ten miles of lakeshore into a wilderness preserve, but we can do the next best thing. We can make it a nice place to live, and since Green is the new Purple, or whatever the hell the kids say today -- we can plan in parks and green space along the lakeshore. Hide our caern in plain sight, the way they did with the Sept of the Green in Central Park.

"Somebody here said people go where things are cheapest. Not quite. People go where they can make money. And this sort of project generates billions for retailers, for real estate developers, and for the city in the form of tax revenue. Once it gets rolling, the citizens will be more than happy to get on board.

"The only catch is this. We need an initial investment. A big one. Think of it as priming the pump. And while I could, in fact, foot the bill, I have no desire to live on a pittance for the next year. More importantly, I have no wish to wear the bullseye.

"So here's the deal. And hear me out before you all close your eyes and decide you've already done enough with your protests and newspapers articles. We keep that up. We push them until they break. But when they sell, we have buyers ready to go. Not ourselves, of course; our contacts, our connections, our friends in major corporations and political funds who might want to get on board a feel-good project like this.

"That's where those of you with these connections come in. I don't want to, and I can't, pull all the strings myself. But if we all pitch in, we can push the city to rezone river north's shoreline as a mixed residential/commerce area. We can sink in an initial incentive fund to draw businesses and land developers in. It'll take at least 8-10 months, maybe a year, before things really get off the ground. But once the ball's rolling, it'll feed itself.

"And hey. It might even make you a few bucks in investment returns."

[Jack Hill] "Parks are better than restaurants," returns Jack, " - and condo developments. Those have their own environmental load costs, and moreover, when the land becomes more valuable, the developers will start looking next door. Wondering why those derelict docks are still derelict. Looking up owners, finding ways in. If you want to hide in plain site, you have to turn it into something publicly owned, minimally used, that wouldn't result in increased foot traffic. Create the sort of gentrified zone, and you lose control. Extend the city's parks, and you'll get some joggers and dog walkers who prefer an out of the way stroll so they don't have to pick up their dog's shit."

Says Jack, in return to Ivan. Then he nods to Imogen.

[Owen DeTerizzi] *Owen rubs his temples. The fang was talking about urban re-gentrification, and the wyrmfoe was slavering like a rabid dog and talking about taking out the mob in the Second City as though he had the faintest idea that that was possible. Its at this point he stands. One hand up as he excuses himself.*

Gotta get back to the roof.

*That said, he's headed out the door, grabbing Michael's sleeve with a tug- apparently drafting him into hard labor,*

[Roman Turner] "It's too bad this area ain't like back home. If it was Native American owned, no one could touch it. So many political ramifications it would make a Marine cry."

[Izzy Montoya] She makes a noise, and shakes her head. There's no telling - as the conversation has moved by, what struck her funny bone - or if it was something she read on her phone. She's paying attention, but keeping her head down, her mouth closed.

Maybe not for long. After all - she wouldn't want Kora to be proud of her. Heh.

She does look up when Imogen mentions her name, and nods. "Of course."

[Slaughter] Her attention is intent on Ivan as he speaks, her features carefully expressionless, even and controlled. Her dark eyes move to Jack as he speaks, then Owen as he leaves and then Roman as he - speaks up again.

"We'll put out word regarding investors. However I think," a glance between both Jack and Ivan, "tha' the conversation o' the zoning is not somethin' worth getting into tonight."

[Sofie Janssen] "You're putting the cart before the horse," Sofie says and pushes up from where she's standing. "I'll come help," she says to Owen, and goes to follow after. She's not doing much here anyway.

[Alexander Truman] "I'll put a few feelers out on what the zoning potential for the area is like. We may be able to even get the docks covered under the historical preservation reforms which would give more breathing space."

[Simon] He nods his head."We still don't have an organized plan of attack... And that is where we need to be focusing our attention in this meeting."

[Ivan Press] [DIBS!]

[Michael Carroll] The talk turns to finance and property investment. Michael clears his throat and prepares to make an excuse for himself, but Owen does it for him. The tug on his sleeve is followed with an apologetic grin to Imogen as he begins walking towards the door. He glances back at Mac and motions with a jerk of his head. "Come on, we're gonna need your small hands. I lost a...trowel...somewhere confined."

[Rain McKellar] The meeting is starting to break up, to deteriorate quickly. There is a long, sweeping oration by the Green Tea fan in the back row, during which Rain reaches into her messenger bag and brings out a pen and a piece of cardstock the size of a business card. She writes her name and number on it, and places it on the table before Jack.

This way, they can keep in touch if she needs to step out before it's over. Or if he gets swept up in conversation with the Fang and she doesn't feel like waiting it out.

[Mac] Mac's brown eyes snap toward Michael and with no one speaking toward anything she can be of service for she nods to the Fianna and follows him out of the meeting. Blackberry and car keys still in her now sweaty hands.

[Sweeney] People start to make their escape, including Milo's own packmates. Michael gets a tug, presumably to be drafted into manual labor. Milo again shakes his head. He has no intention of leaving, not just yet. This is too interesting. At the moment, it's a lot like watching a tennis match. Or a game of racquetball.

Once again, the vaguely buzzed Ragabash assumes the role of quiet, attentive watcher.

[Ivan Press] "And who," Ivan sounds bored, delicately folding back his sleeve to glance at his wristwatch, "are you to tell a true Silver Fang when to speak and what to speak on, kinswoman?"

His eyes flick up. Pin Imogen's for a hard moment. Move on.

"I'm aware," Ivan replies to Jack, breaking off to glance at the door as though wondering when the hell his green tea was showing up, "that parks are better than restaurants, and that a redwood forest on the edge of Lake Michigan would be best of all.

"However, we can't have it all our way. Ask the Glass Walkers. This is the humans' world now. The best we can do is influence them toward doing what's better for us. And if we play it right, we'll get the river north shoreline turned into something along the lines of Grant Park's greener stretches.

"As for hiding the Caern -- joggers haven't been a problem for the Sept of the Green. I'm sure we wolves will figure something out.

"At any rate." At last: Max reappears, pastry and green tea in tow. Ivan breaks off to accept his snack. Sips, sets the cup down. "I'm looking for investors. It's a good opportunity. Katherine Bellamonte and her family's empire is already on board. If anyone else here tonight is interested, give Max your number before you leave."

[Ivan Press] [are. are already on board. i can haz grammar.]

[Izzy Montoya] She does something few people have actually seen - and even fewer would agree she's capable of. She laughs. Outright. Then pins a look on Ivan. "She's the one who called the fuckin' meeting, asshole."

She's texting while she says it. Something else amusing her more than the pompous windbags in the room.

Hits send.

[Owen DeTerizzi] *And so Owen leaves!*

[Jackson Montgomery] he frowns as people begin to leave, the meeting begins to break down. Irritation starts to show, insults start to come out. This is not a good sign.

He stays where he is, taking notes on the tablet. When he sees Rain pass along her contact info to Jack, Jackson smiles a bit and goes to do the same, still listening.

[Slaughter] "Detective Montoya," Imogen's voice is very calm, "While I appreciate the vote of confidence, I do not think it was necessary in this particular scenario.

"Sir," she addresses Ivan with elaborate politeness, "when one attends a meeting called by peasants, one must expect a certain amount of uncouthness. However, certainly, if you are offended by my attitude, I can certainly leave and ask that anyone who wishes to still discuss things with me to come with me."

A beat.

"Regardless, I am sure tha' those here can assist in puttin' the word out fer investors."

A turn toward the remaining kinsfolk. "Does everyone 'ere know what they're doin' next?"

[Rain McKellar] At Imogen's question, Rain's attention flicks back to her and she answers with a quick nod and a slip of a (tense but supportive) smile. She doesn't interject any words in between the Fang and Dr. Slaughter.

[Sofie Janssen] Doing her best to ignore the back and forth between Ivan and just about everyone else, Luana gets out of her chair and stretches. Smoothing a hand through her hair, she approaches Jack, getting out her phone. "Could I grab your number?" she asked, keeping voice low so not to interrupt anything else going on.

[Izzy Montoya] She smirks, slightly. "You thoughts are so noted, Dr. Slaughter." She doesn't bother to look up, scrolling on her phone.

[Jackson Montgomery] He looks at Imogen and nods, gives a 'thumbs up' and then looks back to providing his number to Jack. He smiles as Sofie comes up. "Trade you phone numbers?"

[Sofie Janssen] [Pst, Jack hill! Sorry Jackson!]

[Slaughter] (NO PHONE NUMBER FOR YOU)

[Slaughter] (awwww, Imogen will give Jackson her phone number)

[Sofie Janssen] [LOL!!]

[Danicka Musil] In her corner, Danicka exhales, and raises her pen for a moment, eyes on Imogen, to indicate she'd like a moment to speak. When she has that moment, her voice is heard for the first time tonight, but it's clear.

"Dr. Slaughter," she says, "as I think the two of you have already covered the two main points: that some form of gentrification or control of the lands around the Caern is a good idea but that other plans must come first, I think that saying you can just leave and take your supporters with you sounds a little defensive and divisive. The point of this meeting is to get everyone on the same page, not have one group go off on their own."

She pauses there, and her tone is gentle. "I don't mean to criticize, only remind." She turns to look at Ivan then. "Mr. Press, -rhya, in that same vein, you undermine the attempts at unity made by the auspice council and the Grand Elder himself if you come to a meeting of this kind and throw your trueborn nature and tribe around. We are trying for unity here. That unity is damaged as things stand now. Please don't put added, unnecessary, selfish pressure on it."

[Jack Hill] Jack flashes a look down as Rain writes her contact information on a card and sets it on the table; gives her a faint twist of his mouth, over the shoulder. Reaches into his suit jacket pocket (revealing more of his lady-liberty fellating the rich dude from monopoly game figure) and pulls out a card of his own.

"Commercial real estate values have crashed forty percent in the last few years; I don't want to guess how many condos are out for short-sale right now. Respectfully, you're looking at a boondoggle, and I'd suggest that you consult an economist before making that sort of investment in real estate in the current economy." says Jack. It could just be that he hates yuppies. He manages to do this while fishing out two more cards, one for Luana and one for Jackson. They say: EJ Hill, Director of Community Outreach, AREIU and have a phone number and an address.

" - but, you know, I'm not a financial adviser. And I think you're too ready to throw off the possibility of a Nature Conservancy sort of buy-out. When you start defining your position, you start with the ideal and move toward the realistic. That way, you give up as little as possible. Anyway, the Sept of the Green is in the middle of fucking Central Park. Which is my point; lakeshore, parkland, industrial heritage. It's doable. If you start with that in mind rather than fucking condos no one's gonna buy because there's a short sale down the street and closer to work."

Another card for Imogen. Jack is handing them out tonight!

[Jackson Montgomery] [{I know who you mean, Sofie...Jackson was proactively offering since he was right next to Jack and Imogen mentioned possibly getting her eco-folks in on his PSA's. :D]]

[Ivan Press] "Language," Ivan chides Izzy. "I wasn't speaking to you. And the next time you out of turn to me, you're going to find yourself lost for words."

A glance at Danicka. Umbrella girl. Back to Imogen, then.

"I'm not offended by your 'peasant ways'. I'm deeply wounded," smirking, "that I laid a good proposal on the table and you brushed it aside." Not smirking, then. Serious: "I'm here under the understanding that anyone with ideas to help the Caern is welcome, and that we'd get things done tonight. My part of that is to get whoever's interested, whoever can help, on board the long-term rezoning project.

"I'll concede this much. Maybe I came on a little strong. But all I saw was quibbling over details in the next month, and I had to break that down somehow. I'm sure you all have a plan for the next few days. I'm thinking about the next ten years. Twenty. Fifty."

[Sofie Janssen] [OH! Well, in that case. But it is Luana. Sofie left. I just didn't bother to change tags. Lemme post.]

[Jackson Montgomery] [[Gaah. My bad...sorry, all distracted and got lost. Luana then! :D ]]

[Sofie Janssen] "Thank you," Luana tells Jack, taking his card.

She looks to Jackson with a small quirk of her mouth, and gives a short nod of her head. Her phone already out, she thumbs through the touch screen to add his number. She missed his name earlier so asks: "Name?" This is the quiet, standing slightly behind him rather than in front of the crowd. Her number is offered in return, via a text.

[Izzy Montoya] Ohho. A DARE. And look....

She can smile.

It's not a pretty smile, really. Oh no. This one is all edges, sharp and defined. It's a smile that makes promises, and none of them nice. It's a smile that has sent many a criminal to his knees. It's a very big 'ahha. I own you now' type of smile. One that likely matches one of his - even if hers is currently shown only to her phone.

She says nothing, however. Just looks up at Roman and winks.

[Rain McKellar] Rain accepts Jack's card with a quiet Thank you in an aside that does not quite intrude on Ivan's presence. However, the cluster of kin at the table exchanging information and moving forward with their own plans is a bit of noise and fuss. It does distract. They do not kowtow entirely to the presence of a True with an Opinion.

She slips the card into her bag, and checks her phone while she's at it. After frowning at something in her text messages, she looks back to the Gaian Ragabashes in the corner for a moment, then pockets the phone again.

[Jackson Montgomery] "Jackson Montgomery. Aspiring director." He smiles, and provides his number, then saves hers into his phone when he gets it.

[Simon] He watches the Garou turn to leave and his eyes narrowed and his lip began to curl just a hint. Fury washed through those eyes and those faces were put to memory as they turned to leave. The Full Moon's moon was close and it was more than apparent the closeness of his moon was affecting him. Eyes glimmer with rage and burn at the backs of their heads as they file out of the building.

He then hears Ivan's comment and he growls a little."Quit threatening the kin... You can contribute to the discussion or you can leave but I am not gonna sit here and let you scare them off when this is their fucking meeting."

[Ivan Press] "How much space do you think is going to be rezoned, Mr... whatever your name is?" Ivan's looking at Jack; he must be speaking to him. "A city block? Two? I'm speaking of three, five miles of prime lakeshore, ten blocks deep. Minimum. Do you honestly believe any investor will get on board a project to turn that much land, three minutes from the Magnificent Mile, ten from the Loop, to one big nature conservancy?

"It won't happen. Ever. You're going to have to put up with a few restaurants. And condos. The trade off is a park where the Caern is, instead of a toxic waste dump. As for ideals: if you start with ideals and then try for results, you'll end up a hippie protesting the Republicans in San Francisco.

"Start with what's practical. Know what you can and can't compromise on. Move on from there. Now, I'm done debating the details. Are you on board, or are you just wasting my time?"

[Sofie Janssen] With a small smile to Jackson, she slides her phone into the small bag with her. "Thank you, Jackson." Then, glancing over the room, leaving a quick look on Simon - the only of her Tribe here she knows, Luana leaves as quietly as she had come.

[Rain McKellar] Simon bristles, and Ivan keeps pressing, and something in the quiet girl who has stood beside the table all this while finally gives.

"G'night Dr. Slaughter," she says, in a break in the conversation. Because they have to breathe, all of them do, True included, and that many words will slip right in. "Thank you for having me."

Rain offers a nod to Jack and Jackson, then steps back from the table. Her gaze goes to Milo as she moves out of the room, lingers for a moment, and just catches Roman before she steps out. The Wyrmfoe can be furious; the Fang likely won't notice. Either which way, the kinswoman is out for the night.

(Thank you guys for the scene!)

[Roman Turner] "Wait up Rain, I'll see ya home.'

With that he was up and following the girl.

((to brain deadto continue, sory))

[Jackson Montgomery] He heads along with Rain, to head home with her after he stops to get Imogen's number and provide his own. And this he's out.

[[Thanks!]]

[Sweeney] A handful of kin are trying to ignore the back and forth between Ivan and, well, everyone who talks to him. It's like ignoring a bear in the corner; tensions rise, apprehensions, anger, ire. There is one who doesn't glare or revile the Silver Fang. Milo watches him more than the others, his expression mostly passive, fascinated.

"Someone mentioned layers," he says, speaking up again. "The park could be the buffer we need between Caern and industry. And revenue from condos, business, all of it, could be filtered back into the sept's use." He stops suddenly, his gaze cutting to Rain, then pausing to focus on her, just before she bolts. There's a moment of hesitation, and then his attention returns to the room. There are others to see her safely where she needs to go. Milo can't leave, anyway. His sister is downstairs.

"It's a solid plan for our future, I think." For what it's worth, his tone says, and he steps away from the wall. No need to stay on the outskirts when everything in between is gone.

[Adara Mires] She was there, silent, leaning against the wall. She had been listening to everyone. Seem like many people were more apt thanher at influencing the humanworld and had better means to. She was far from rich, she couldn't help financially. She had no formal education after the age of 13, after her first change. She didn't know muh about legal issues and possibilities. But she loved the Sept, she loved the Brotherhood, so that's why she was here.

She might ont have much to add to the conversation but at least she was learning about how things worked. She moved slowly toward Simon in case the full moon lost it. She laready had t be Ahroun one disturbed Ahroun last night, keeping him out of trouble, she might to so tonight with another. Also, she had things she wated to talk with him after the meeting.

Eventually she spoke "Dr Slaughter, Miss musil, I met a kin who work for the gouvernment two nights ago. His name isArchie, maybe you know him already. He gave me his number so I could give it to you if you need himand to keep him in the loop since he couldn't be hre often"

She look at the two kinswomen, to see if they wanted the number. At least she gave the message Archie wanted her to. She contributed some.

[Slaughter] Imogen's gaze moves toward Danicka, when she is chided - or reminded. The only thing that is offered is that. Simply, her attention.

Her attention turns to Ivan. Her regard is even, as he threatens, as Simon reacts and Montoya does not - or at least not audibly.

"I believe this was less o' a brushing aside as a difference in priorities," is all she says, before turning her attention to Rain as she leaves, then Jackson, to pass him a business card in exchange for his own numbers.

Jackson and Ivan begin to talk the zoning again, but Imogen does not interrupt this time, instead answering Adara, "I'd like th'number, yes."

[Kristen Burke] ((Heading home from work finally. Kristen will continue to listen quietly, watching and observing.))

[Izzy Montoya] Roman leaves, and Izzy's phone is slipped back into her pocket. Her hands become occupied with finding her pack of cigarettes and lighter, though she doesn't light up just yet. Instead, she rolls one between her fingers, dark eyes sweeping the room, resting lightly here, there, on each and every face, watching and listening. Always listening.

Something dances deep in her gaze.. something raw. Something reckless. Dangerous perhaps. Only question is... to whom?

[Jack Hill] Jack makes a negative sound in the back of his throat; just - looks at Ivan. "If you start your negotiations by naming off all the concessions you intend to make, you've already given far too much ground. I promise you, that sort of development you'll lose control of, and quick." So - the kinsman, will not be investing. He also considers the conversation over, and pauses to offer Imogen a card too. "Gotta run. I'll get with the others and get to work. Will call if I have any other news. I still have a few angles to run down."

[Danicka Musil] For the second time, Danicka lifts her pen, giving a nod to Adara. Ivan and Imogen's attention to what she had to say, dismissal of it or simple glossing over of it, doesn't seem to be the point of having brought it up, however much her words were directed at them. She does seem tired, for all that she's only spoken the once. She gets Archie's number and passes her own along to Adara to give to him if she can.

[Adara Mires] She gave Archie's number to Imogen and Danicka, speaking softly to them, not disturbing those around. She offer them a smile and nod after she was done. She didn't know well the two kinswomen but she knew enough about them to realized they weren't into small talk.

She noted Danicka's number "I'll make sure he gets it"She tell the Shadow Lord kin. Then once it was done, she slowly move away. She can always talk to them later if she has something to tell them. Now she position herself not too far from Simon again, eyes on the impetuous Ahroun.

[Simon] He nods his head."No one said your idea was bad and in the end it might be the way we need to go Ivan but right now the priority of this meeting it to organize and coordinate what we are going to do. When the time comes we will discuss the long term... And if you would like you can even set up that meeting but these kin gathered here tonight because they were asked here, not because they felt like showing up and giggling about what they could do, because they are trying to help us deal with a mess that we should have seen coming miles ago."He says with a nod of his head.

"I don't want you feeling like you aren't welcome to speak... But I also sure as fuck don't want the kin who gathered here thinking they can't speak their minds when we asked them for their fucking help."He says back to Ivan.

[Ivan Press] "I'll take your prophecy into consideration," Ivan replies, wry.

Jack leaves too. Unsurprising, since Imogen as good as called a close to the meeting not long ago. Still; having just arrived, all dressed up and whatnot, Ivan seems in no hurry to leave. He gets up, though, going over to the trash can to deposit a napkin. His pastry has disappeared. Yum.

Max is still in the corner. No longer taking notes, but assiduously, coldly alert: more falcon than woman, it seems.

On the way back, Ivan seems headed for Simon already when the Shadow Lord speaks up. A look of surprise crosses the Fang's face; then it relaxes into laughter.

"Thanks for having my feelings in mind," he quips, one hand over his heart, "but I think -- well. One, I knew coming in this wasn't exactly going to be a crowd with a lot of finances and connections on hand. No harm in asking, all the same. Two, I never said the kin shouldn't go right ahead with their plans to publically humiliate Black Sun. Who do you suppose bought the front-page article last week ripping them to shreds?"

"But I disagree that it's 'too early' to plan for the long term. It's never too late. Not planning for the long term is why we're in this mess today.

"Now, I actually meant to talk to you about something. Earlier you talked about wanting to take out the mob, one kill at a time. I think that might be ... a little too ambitious. The way I see it, the mob's a business like any other. They'll come where the money is, just like everyone else. And just like any business, it's all about the bottom line. War is expensive. Bribery's expensive. This sort of aggression they're pulling now -- it's expensive. If they keep happy taking a cut out of legitimate businesses, what do we care, right? They've been here longer than we have. This is the first time they've threatened us.

"Which brings me to this point. The way they've been acting recently, I wouldn't be surprised if a few of the higher-ups are wyrm-corrupted and actively acting against us. So there might come a time when your willingness to cut a few throats will be useful. Take out the truly tainted. Leave the rest to run the business the way they have for the last two hundred years."

[Ivan Press] [err. it's never too EARLY.]

[Slaughter] Phone numbers pass hands again - Jackson and Imogen, Adara and Danicka, then Imogen and Adara - with the kinswoman letting the Fury know tha' she can pass Imogen's number to Archie as well, as necessary.

Simon speaks to Ivan, and Imogen glances around. Montoya, silent near the table, Danicka in one of the few chairs in the entire room in the corner, out of the way. Kristen, silent, and Sweeney near the wall.

"All right," she says, hopefully for the last time tonight. "I'll let yeh know if there are any investors out there fer yeh." A glance toward Ivan, as she moves away from the table, starting to gather up the contents of it, glancing briefly at Detective Montoya, "Yeh probably should not be MIA fer much longer," she says.

The hint is not precisely subtle.

[Ivan Press] "Excuse me -- " he holds up a finger to Simon, turning to answer Imogen. "For the record, Dr. Slaughter, I'm not looking for direct investment. I'm not only looking for those with financial connections, either. I'm also looking for those with friends who might smooth the way. Help secure city council votes, help get permits passed; the works. So if you hear of any interest, I'll be obliged if you passed it along."

-- back to Simon, then.

[Izzy Montoya] Dark eyes track Ivan and Simon for a moment, watching as they move closer together. Calculating. Considering. And then...

A huff of breath, amused at Imogen's comment. "Perhaps." She makes no apologies for her earlier words, for stepping on the redheads toes. She intended to step on toes - though it was clearly not directed at the Doc. "It's getting pretty fuckin' deep in here anyway. Gonna step in shit for sure..."

She pushes from the wall, and props the unlit cigarette between her lips as she starts toward the door. "I'll call ya when I have something." There's no doubt that she will find something, after all. Confident in her own abilities, Izzy.

[Sweeney] When Izzy looks from face to face, Milo notices it, closer to the table as he is. Pale blue eyes dart to her face. The Child of Gaia catches something of that gaze after it leaves his face, and darts to others. What he sees causes him some measure of concern, makes him shift his stance slightly as if he's preparing for something.

In the end he does nothing. Except step back, offer Imogen a respectful nod of his head before quietly taking his leave. It's getting late, and he has things to do.

[Simon] He listens to Ivan though he shakes his head in response to the Mob."I don't give a flying fuck if the mob wants to dance around and kill people and make billions on their own time. It's when they come beating on my fucking door that I have a problem with them... Or anyone who wants to bring a fight to my door."

"They have wealth... But they also have beds, and bathrooms, and showers... And scents which can be tracked and flesh that can be torn. In other words they are mortal men and mortal men can die."He says back to the man."Back home you can bet that my Tribe has a firm boot on the organized crime syndicates across Eastern Europe. Considering the shit I've heard about the Russian mob I wouldn't be surprised to learn the Shadow Lords are behind the organization. That's the problem... The Mob is a resource. The Mob is a resource which can be controlled. We're not controlling it... We could be but we're not."He shrugs his shoulders.

"Maybe we should change that... But right now they've got the crosshairs trained on our caern."He says back to Ivan."I will never allow that to happen... I will never allow them to taint my Caern. I will die before that happens, all of us will."He says before shrugging his shoulders.

[Adara Mires] She had nodded to Imogen when the Doctor told her to pass her number to Archie. She'll give him the two women's number. He can decide if he need to call them or not. The meeting was over, people were now leaving one by one. She nodded to Izzy if the Fenrir looked in her direction. She haven't found the time to talk with Izzy yet, though she still want to.

She offer a smile to Milo, she doesn't know him, a new face for her but it doesn't step her from being polite at least. A smile was a start, maybe htey'll bump into each other another time and introductions will be performed. She wait ofr Simon's dicussion to be over. If it look liek it will be long, she can alwaysleave and call him. It was onthing urgent after all. And once the kin have left, if he let his moon win over his control, well Ivan can take care of himself right?

[Slaughter] She glances at Ivan when he speaks, a brief smirk touching her mouth. "Duly noted," she says as she gathers the last of the sheets and blue prints. She plucks her blazer from the table, sliding into it.

Milo takes his leave, Imogen nodding briefly as he goes. As Simon speaks of dying for the caern, she glances back over her shoulder, expression thoughtful.

"Ta," to Montoya when she says she will call. "We'll talk soon, I'm sure."

Danicka, Ivan, Adara, and Simon remain. To all four, she says, "Goodnight. Just be sure t'close th'door when yeh leave. It locks automatically."

[Danicka Musil] Her role here tonight was, it seemed, only to liaise, as per the job description. Speak for the interests of the Kinfolk if they wanted it or seemed to need it, though in a meeting called and mostly populated by Kin, not the highest priority. Communicate. Try and facilitate communication where and when she could, as best she could.

Ivan remembers her as Umbrella Girl and mostly ignores her. As she puts away her notebook and rises to her feet to let Simon and Ivan go back to discussing something that's primarily Garou business anyway, Danicka passes by and sets down a small piece of cardstock with her number on it. "I'm not my advisor's wealthiest client," is all she says, and gives him and Simon both a nod. "Take it easy, gentlemen."

She reaches the door near the same time as Imogen and gives the other woman a small, tight smile and a nod. "Goodnight, Dr. Slaughter."

She exits as well, heading a different direction from the redhead.

[Simon] He throws a wave in Imogen's direction and a nod of his head."I will talk to you later get some rest Doc."

[Kristen Burke] *She moves to stand next to Adara, planning to wait for her to leave

[Adara Mires] Imogen was leaving, so she smiled to the kinswoman and waved slightly "Have a good night Doctor. See you around"

She nodded to Danicka as she walk past her to leave, her attention mostly on the two Garou discussing. Kristen stepped beside her and she look at her friend with a smile "Hey"She say to her

[Ivan Press] It's quite likely Ivan thinks of Simon as a frothing, rabid animal. A crass, unsubtle weapon that could be pointed at enemies. Then again, most people think of Simon as that. Most people underestimate him.

Still, Ivan doesn't roll his eyes and walk away. He thinks a moment, and then he says, "I'll tell you what. I'll have a talk with the new Ragabash Elder and see if we can start digging into this mob family. If we find corruption, or if I receive definitive proof of it in the course of my activities, I'll see about passing the name on to you. A few well-timed strikes could make this whole regentrification deal flow a lot smoother, but we'll have to be careful."

He nods to Imogen as she leaves. As he woman passes him, he holds out his calling card. It's different from the one last year: still sheer, translucent plastic with rounded edges, but pale purple now. His name is stamped on in small caps, black. Only a Silver Fang would use such a color, such a card, without a hint of self-consciousness; without a hint of worry about what questions it might cast on his masculinity.

As Danicka drops her card on her way out, the Ragabash's fine mouth curls at the edges. He picks it up in one hand, flicks the backs of his fingers against it.

"I knew I'd get your number someday," he says. "Goodnight."

[Slaughter] (thanks for the RP guys! and for attending the meeting! etc! oh god, bed now)

[Kristen Burke] She nods to the people who are leaving and smiles softly at Adara. "Hey"

[Danicka Musil] [Thanks so much for the RP!]

[Adara Mires] (thank youas well Kai)

[Simon] He nods his head."Bring me something I can use and I will deal with it..."He says back to Ivan with a sense of certainty and a hint of a smile back in the direction of the New Moon."I would rather we didn't have to do this... But they're threatening our caern and that means they can't be ignored."

[Ivan Press] "Sounds good." On that note, Ivan rises, sliding his coat on and buttoning the top of the two buttons. "I suppose we'll be in touch, Bone-Grinder-yuf."

[Adara Mires] She smiled to Ivan "Have a good evening it was nice ot see youagain"And it had been a while too, she hadn't seen the Ragabash since the night with the house of vines. She waved at him, the looked at the Wyrmfoe

"Hey Simon, how are you? Got some time for a chat?" She ask him with a smile

She look at Kristen "Want ot stay with us if we talk or you want to do something else?"

[Kristen Burke] "I'm up for more listening. I might even have an idea or two to share." She smirks slightly.

[Ivan Press] [thanks for the play, folks! i'm off!]

[Adara Mires] (thank you Damon..see ya)