Professional opinions

Ian
It's late by the time Ian arrives at the Diamond Cabaret. Somewhere close to midnight, and he's tired enough from performing that he could conceivably claim ignorance as to the nature of this particular establishment. When River texted him, she didn't offer up any sort of warning. But let's face it: Ian knows exactly what this place is. He doesn't need to have been here, or even googled the website, to know that a place called the Diamond Cabaret is almost certainly a strip club. And if he wasn't one hundred percent certain before he arrived, he is now.

There's a moment after he parks his car in the lot where he looks out at the building, awash in a glow of blue and orange light, and contemplates whether this is something he actually wants to do. Maybe it's the exhaustion talking, but in the end he gives this little huff of laughter and gets out of the car.

Fuck it. Why not.

So he goes in. The girl at the door is pretty and attentive, and she smiles at him as he walks past. The interior of the club is plush and faux-decadent, as higher-end strip clubs often are. There's a room nearby featuring a display case full of imported cigars, which might be the most heterosexual thing he's has seen all day. He doesn't sit down immediately. Instead he looks out over the layout of the club, searching for some sign of River's vaguely-familiar face.

He's dressed appropriately enough, all things considered. His jeans are a designer label, and the leather jacket he has on over his t-shirt looks expensive. But he isn't suited up like some of the other clientele.

River
Well and so, she had to actually go to work. The community was small enough that she couldn't No Call/No Show at the club and, frankly, she still had Work to do. Life had to go on, despite the fact that she was now sleeping in a bathtub at a hotel with her former mentor and they were not exactly on the best of terms. The bathtub, oddly enough, had been her idea. River actually slept in the bathtub even when they were on good terms, having since concluded that she liked the enclosed space and the occasional feeling of cold porcelain on her skin juxtaposed with a nice blanket. She usually came in a few moments before sunrise anyway, slept a little bit, and then continued her day.

Admittedly, having a random woman covered in glitter sleeping in a bathtub scared the ever loving shit out of housekeeping. Without the lights on, she looked a bit like a dead body and then people had to wonder oh god, is there a dead stripper in the bathtub or is she sleeping? The answer is not usually don't worry, she's just sleeping so inevitably she gets woken up by housekeeping, vacates the room to go swimming or do yoga or whatever it is she does in the morning, and then crawls back into the tub to go back to sleep.

River is at work, and she isn't dressed like a cowgirl or a cheerleader- she's wearing a cocktail dress. And not an excuse for a cocktail dress, either, not something lycra stretchable I-can-see-practically-everything number. Grant you, it's gold and covered in sequins, but it actually does leave something to the imagination. River Vasquez rents space; she doesn't intend on giving people a show that they didn't explicitly pay her for. She had been talking to a business man, presumably. Someone with graying hair and a tan who brought out a wiry, nervous looking sort with him. The table smelled like Big Oil money, like people who made their fortunes in black gold and they were showing their new accountant a good time from out of town.

Her eyes go to the door, the way everyone's eyes go to the door when someone new comes in and she smiles, barely grazes the older man's shoulder and flashes him a smile. He calls her a Mexican rose. (Cuban, she corrects, laughs but corrects) and she continues on her way to go greet the rather attractive, probably exhausted man who just entered.

"You made it," she told him, smile bright but not too bright; he can probably figure as to why. She puts on a great face for the clients- flexible. River is flexible, "Janette is running the bar tonight, if you want anything I can cover it."

Ian
He spots River near a group of business men, her gold cocktail dress winking and glittering in the warm light. She looks busy, so he doesn't immediately approach her. Instead he offers a subtle nod of acknowledgment when she looks his way. There's a girl carrying a tray of empty glasses who brushes past him and asks, in a trained and flirty voice, if he'd like a drink. But River is already heading his way, so he declines. When she gets to his side, he smiles and quirks an eyebrow just slightly. This knowing little look that says - you did not tell me you worked at a strip club.

But he doesn't give her a hard time - because he gets it. And besides, he's seen much worse than this place before. Given a slightly different set of circumstances, he could very well have ended up doing something similar.

"I could probably use a bourbon, if you have any good ones."

He could use more than one. But probably not as much as River could. Ian doesn't know yet that River just lost her cabal-mate. He doesn't know that she's been sleeping in a bathtub. There are a lot of things he doesn't know, yet.

"I like your dress," he adds. "Do you dance here?" There's a nod of his head toward the stage.

River
River must be a phenomenal dancer on stage because she is not, in fact, the most flirtacious of the people in the area. Keeps her sense of personal space just that- personal. Is personable enough that she can convince people that they want to buy her time versus being able to enjoy it without a price. Supply and demand, and in the particular business she is in? River has learned to be able to market herself as a very limited product.

"Widow Jane, eight years straight?" she asks for a confirmation. They have some pretty good bourbon here, as far as she knows. River knows what she gets in her flask at the beginning of her night off, knows that she cracked open a bottle with Janette recently and knows that the deep cherry notes are not always everyone's cup of tea.

Or, in this case, glass of bourbon.

She compartmentalizes well. Puts things away and handles herself whens he has a job to do and, provided there isn't anything to churn her stomach, she might be able to handle it. Or, perhaps, the distance is her way of mourning, being unavailable even if it comes down to people who don't matter. Whatever the case. "I do, dance here, I mean," she tells him, "I'm main stage in about ten minutes if you want to stay? I don't know if this is your preferred location and I kind of feel like I need to ward people off so you can actually, you know, relax without being hit up for a lap dance."

A second, and she realizes he complimented her dress and she laughs, looks up, "oh! Yes, thank you. It's hard to take off, which is actually why I like it."

Ian
Widow Jane, she suggests, and Ian smiles, nodding in confirmation. The two of them head to the bar, and he leans back against it on two elbows, casual and languid. This place may not be his preferred haunt, but he's far from uncomfortable. There's a glance thrown to the bartender when they get there. River confirms that she's about to go on stage, and Ian laughs when she suggests it might not be safe to leave him alone.

"Are you worried about the dancers or the customers?" Because all things considered, she could have meant either one. "I don't think I could afford a lap dance here," he observes. And although he's teasing it isn't entirely untrue. He's wearing a thousand dollar jacket and three hundred dollar jeans but that kind of clothing budget leaves precious little expendable income when one dances ballet for a living (even taking into account the investments he set up back when he was modeling.) Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. And Ian, well... he's all about appearance, isn't he?

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

River
She does order him a drink, and true to her word does put it on her tab, which she actually has open. Orders a bourbon with him because, sometimes, you need to drink with the clients. Also, River just lost a friend. A very, very dear friend; the boss seemed to stay away from her for the week because she came to work on Saturday and spent half of the day crying backstage. Grant you, in some establishments this is not an uncommon sight. For the Diamond Cabaret, this made management concerned.

She said she'd lost a family member, didn't say which one. Let one of the bouncers give her a hug because (ironically) she found him incredibly non-threatening.

"Dancers, mostly? The customers are more like islands- so long as you don't overlap they're fine. I haven't run into too many-" she makes a little uncomfortable sound, takes a sip of her bourbon (she takes it neat, thank you), "-you know. Overly familiar people."

"It's not a bad place to work, but I'm an independent contractor right now."

So despite the fact that this was the kind of place where your lapdances might cost more than the standard twenty? She wasn't raking in much in terms of take home.

Ian
Given the clientele, he's also probably not their type. Ian, of course, knows this. It's more likely that one of them might sit down and try to make small talk than ask him for a lap dance. River says it's not a bad place to work - that she hasn't run into too many overly familiar people, but when she makes that little sound Ian affords her a careful gaze. He knows what she means by that. Knows why she might want to wear a dress that wasn't easy for straying hands to remove.

He picks up his bourbon and breathes it in for a moment before taking a drink. The taste is smooth and warm and it makes his tired muscles uncoil a little.

"Yeah, it seems alright." (For a strip club.) Ian's gaze slides over the room, taking in the atmosphere. There's an older man a few seats away who's getting a lap dance from a girl who's wearing significantly less fabric than River is, and Ian watches this with an almost clinical gaze - like maybe he's analyzing her technique.

His eyes sweep back to River. "Provided you don't mind the work." It isn't really stated in a judgmental way. More... questioning. Someone people take off their clothes for a living because they like it. Some people do it because they have to.

"There are naked pictures of me on the internet, so I can't really judge."

Ian
[Edit: Some people take off their clothes...]

River
"I find the idea of being able to hang seven feet in the air by my thigh muscles alone to be ridiculously empowering," she laughed, took another sip of her drink. She's got about half of it left and she knows better than to leave it, doesn't make enough to feel particularly good about tossing it but, there she was. Pushing it back to the bar and giving the bartender a little unvoiced thank you. The drink goes away. She's smart about what she drinks, doesn't leave things unattended and knows she can't really enjoy her drink if she's still working.

River took a few steps back, impossible heals and completely comfortable in them. They can't be much different than pointe shoes, she thinks sometimes. Except, of course, when they are different. And they are different, heels distribute differently.

"I like the style, but I don't much care for people taking liberties they think a twenty affords them," she says. Probably shouldn't say while she's at work but the woman is frank. She smiles something quiet and pleased, "I'm gonna go get ready. Mainstage, my time slot. I had to do a lot of negotiating to get it so I don't want to miss."



River took a few steps back, impossible heals and completely comfortable in them. They can't be much different than pointe shoes, she thinks sometimes. Except, of course, when they are different. And they are different, heels distribute differently.

"I like the style, but I don't much care for people taking liberties they think a twenty affords them," she says. Probably shouldn't say while she's at work but the woman is frank. She smiles something quiet and pleased, "I'm gonna go get ready. Mainstage, my time slot. I had to do a lot of negotiating to get it so I don't want to miss."

[reposts]

Ian
He laughs at that, because he gets it. There's so much ritual and expression and power in the kinds of things they do - the way they work their bodies. Maybe it's different for her than it is for him. People dance for all kinds of reasons. But empowering certainly isn't a bad word for it.

She slides the rest of her drink back across the bar. Ian's eyes follow the movement, and almost he wants to tell her not to waste it, but he gets that too - why she doesn't leave it. Even with him there (perhaps especially with him there.) This is not a place for blind trust.

She has to go get ready, and Ian nods toward the stage. "Go do your thing. I'll be here when you get done."

Once she's gone, he takes his drink and finds a seat closer to the stage, settling down into the plush cushions with perhaps a bit less comfort than his relaxed body language would imply. The chair, see, it has a smell to it. All the chairs here do. He can pick it up better than most - the lingering traces of old pheromones woven into the fabric.

There's a man a few seats away who looks at him like he doesn't belong there. Ian just sips his drink and pointedly avoids eye contact.

River
[Dex+art (dance), diff 6 - 1 (aptitude!)= 5. Let's see how this actually goes?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens] [WP]

River
She disappears off to back room/dressing room because she does have to get ready. It's a production, after all, even if she's on for all of three minutes but it's a solid three and a half minutes of actually focusing on what she's doing while simultaneously trying to make money. She has to get her head in the game.

River's head, most definitely, is not in the game.

She looks in the mirror, is in the process of pinning her hair up and away from her face. She hasn't talked to too many of the other girls aside from the perfunctory conversations. There's a strange aire of both camaraderie and competition- everyone gets time, and frankly River got a damned fine slot and she didn't necessarily operate like some of the other dancers. More like she's channeling her inner courtesan. We digress.

The lights dim and, after a few moments, she does come out. Knows her audience, knows said audience might have a thing for secretaries, or at the very least knew she could milk getting out of a pencil skirt and a blouse for some time. The heels are impossibly high; it seems to be a standard issue for the girls, something about the way it makes the body move. It's an aesthetic. Beyonce plays, but it's a slow song- Crazy in Love. Starts with a piano introduction and she walks out- hips move.

Her lipstick is brick red. Cheekbones high. Lashes thick.

The first few moments are punctuated with a purposeful gait and the occasional moment of fairly intense eye contact with that poor accountant that the big oil boys brought to the club. She moves and the world feels like it's breaking down, for her at least. It's the motion of the universe and she turns, a slow and purposeful moment where she's slipping out of her skirt, the way that she has to push it off of her hips before it just falls tot he ground, carefully discarded far enough away that she won't slip on it, the blouse she's wearing is long but when she takes herself back to the pole, drops down and there's a peek of a garter belt and the hints of how very... very little she's wearing beneath that shirt.

She smiles and it hits one side of her mouth, closes her eyes because she doesn't want people to realize the smile won't hit her eyes, doesn't want to break the illusion of seduction, that there might be a room full of people but she's not dancing for the other dozen people there. There is a moment when the shirt disappears, the music intensifies and the motion to remove clothing is more intense- more purposeful. The kind of frenzied intensity that comes with passion and then there is art. The pole had merely been there as an accessory, a prop to hold her up in moments showing off provocative flexibility but at that moment she went from mere seductress to acrobat.

River shouldn't be as strong as she is, most of it is due to the fact that she's lighter than she looks, keeps a relatively low bodyweight and practices the sort of control necessary to maintain effortless spins and pirouettes and drops (and she does drop, at one point, held high in the air when she;s taking off her bra and she plummets with arms out and back arched and stops a foot above the ground. Walks herself outward and back like she's a gymnast.

The climax of the music has ended, and the woman takes the time to collect what she'd earned, comes close enough to people to accept whatever they'd offer in rare moments. Her mascara is smudged, eyes bright and glistening and the world threatens to fall apart, only to be built back again.

She dances like a force of reverent entropy, like everything comes together for a reason, for a price, and it will all end just like the song does... but she'll dance anyway because it's life affirming. It's in the almost half-hearted way that she collects her money that it becomes clear-

River Vasquez would dance, even if she never saw another cent again. It's fundamental to who, and what, she is.

Ian
It's a good performance, technically speaking. River has more grace and artistry than probably any other exotic dancer Ian has seen live. That alone catches his attention when she gets on stage. The way she moves. The precision and the agility. To a dancer's eyes, it's impressive. He knows how difficult some of those moves are. And if his response to the dance is a slightly different sort of interest than the men around him, they hardly notice. They aren't looking at him.

There's an air of detachment about it though - and he notices that too. Notices the way she plays the part without fully feeling it. It's the only thing that keeps her from truly lighting up the stage.

But he doesn't judge her for that.

The other men in the audience shout encouragements at the stage, tossing bills out to try and attract River's attention. Ian is the only one of them who remains calm and seated throughout the whole performance. At some point he finishes off his drink and sets the empty glass down, leaning his head against a curled fist as he watches.

She's beautiful - with or without her clothes. And it isn't as though he doesn't notice that (of course he does.) Even appreciates it in this quiet sort of way. But he doesn't look at her with hunger, the way many of the other patrons do. Instead there is this reverent appreciation of the dance itself - the skill and the seduction that she works on the crowd.

When it's over, he watches her collect her earnings and exit the stage. Then he stands up and migrates back to the bar to wait for her.

River
The whole night is a performance like that- someone has to know she's going through the motions. People have to know that while River Vasquez is technically superb she's not connected to this, as much as she isn't connected to anything. She had connections, some didn't stay buried and others don't get to rest in the ground; it's a difficult juxtaposition but if she can teeter on those heels surely she can manage her own personal life.

River's staying in a hotel, getting to know Ihsan, who she has deigned to be a perfectly enjoyable young woman. Someone she can talk to without, well, getting to say very much. Maybe part of her allure comes from the willful detachment, or perhaps people just don't notice. At the end of the day, she's a commodity. At the end of the day, the role she's been cast for has the wrong actress in it but the production certainly makes due.

And she does come out again, after she's fixed her makeup and pinned her hair back and put that gold dress back on that is visually stunning but difficult to remove (there's a trick to it, she told a client recently, but I don't think you'll get to figure it out while I'm on the clock. There's other reasons she does this job, and those reasons have more to do with karmic duty than thrills. She may be seeing that man again, though she hopes not. Hopes that when she checks in again that he's managed to redirect his path, as of yet River has not met someone who seeks the kind of forgiveness she offers.)

River dallies, goes back to talk to the big oil boys and actually does give the poor little accountant her attentions briefly. She laughs, kisses him on the forehead like he's an errant first grader. "Congratulations on your promotion," she tells him. The boys roar and he settles in to a quiet blush, "don't let it run you ragged."

Walks away, heads back to the bar. Gives Ian a little wave which is little more than a wiggle of her fingers and a smile.

"Should I quit my day job?"

Ian
"Mm, depends. You're certainly good enough." It's a diplomatic answer, but not a dishonest one. By the time River arrives, he's seated on one of the barstools with a second glass of bourbon (he paid for this one himself) resting half-empty in front of him. None of the other dancers have attempted yet to ply their trade with him. They know how to spot where the money is flowing, and guys like Ian? They aren't nearly desperate enough.

They also likely noticed that he didn't take out his wallet while River was dancing.

"I did think about tossing a twenty up there, but... it seemed a little cheap." (It seemed a little like he'd saying that she was cheap.) Rationally, of course, he knows that it's her job. That this is just how exotic dancers get paid. But the social dynamics of it have never sat right with him.

Instead, he pulls something out of the liner pocket of his jacket and slides it across the bar. If River looks at it, she'll see that it's a ticket to his show. (The title is called: Rituals. And the dance company: Pulse. The performance is in Buell Theatre.) "So I thought maybe... a trade. A dance for a dance. Or, alternately, you could scalp that and probably get about fifty bucks." His mouth curls into a dry smile. "I won't hold you to it."

There's a pause before he adds, more seriously. "You were beautiful up there."

River
She does take a seat at the bar, crosses her legs and leans against the bar as though she is actually talking shop with someone who she could actually talk shop with. River's done this with some of the other girls, things she's shown people that you can do on a pole without conceivably breaking your neck- unlike some of the things River did tonight, which could actually cause a minor concussion if done incorrectly.

But there is a ticket in hand and she does take it between her fingers, feels the paper and looks over the printed pieces and the raised ink. She doesn't have the kind of feel for paper some people do but she certainly does have an eye for the way tickets look. They're unique; this is no different.

"I'd rather see you dance than stand in a parking lot to get cash," she says with a little wave, as though she were dismissing a thought, "unless you can do that on the internet now?"

Given her tone, it doesn't sound like she'd know how to scalp tickets on the internet. Shrugs it off because, eh- technology. What can you do?

"And you already had to pay cover to get in, if you paid any more I'd feel guilty," truth to that, even though she has a playful smile on her face. He tells her she was beautiful while she performed and some people might have taken that as flirtation, but she hadn't. In fact, the entirety of her interaction with Ian, while occasionally playful, wasn't necessarily flirtatious. She wasn't trying to get into the man's pants even though, ironically, she was paid primarily by her ability to make people think that she did want to get into their pants.

Her cheeks turn pink, not because she thinks Ian is hitting on her (she does not, in fact, seem to believe this) but rather because he'd given her a compliment that seemed to mean something.

"If you're ever interested in learning some of this, let me know? It's actually easier barefoot," River says, "or, if you want to see me perform again. Either way, don't be a stranger."

Ian
There's a soft laugh at that - less because he thinks the suggestion absurd than because he actually had been thinking about the last time he attempted to pole dance. River blushes a little at the compliment, and if Ian had been flirting with her he would have said something else then. But they aren't flirting. It's probably the first time in a while that Ian has been in this kind of circumstance with someone and not tried to follow it up into something more intimate.

"Who knows, maybe I'll take you up on that. I don't think the clients here would like me though."

Maybe not, but there are certainly places where he could make a tidy profit doing this kind of thing - were he inclined to do so. He certainly had the body for it.

He finishes off his drink slowly. When he sets it down, he purses his lips together and runs his tongue between them thoughtfully.

"I'm glad you invited me. Even though I'm about half-ready to fall asleep on this stool - through no fault of your own." He slides off the seat like he's maybe getting ready to go.

"We should talk more. Maybe somewhere more private next time." That probably does sound like he's hitting on her, so he clarifies: "You know, away from prying ears."

There's a pause before he adds, "You should call my friend Emma by the way. I think she really likes you."

River
He says that she should call Emma, because he thinks that Emma really likes River and she ducks down, covers her mouth brows raise and the look on her face can only be described as delight.

"Really?"

Oh, that doesn't help her not blush at all. "I kind of thought she was out of my league," she admits.

Ian
He laughs again, and the sound is fuller this time - warmer. "Yeah. Well, she's a bit... aloof." (Pot - kettle, Ian.) "But when I told her I was going to see you she made this face... I can't do it justice. It was a very Emma face. But anyway, I could tell she was a little... disgruntled."

That was really the best word for it. Because Emma Lakshmi was far too composed to ever exhibit obvious jealousy.

"Don't sell yourself short." He starts to step away, but turns back long enough to say, "Thanks for the drink. And the dance." Then he offers her this lingering smile as he turns and walks out into the night.

Planning committee

River
River locked herself in the bathroom at work and stared at her phone like she wasn't exactly sure what it was Grace had done, or what had been stewing under the surface in this city and she had just missed. She was in there for a good ten minutes trying to process, patrons pounding on the single door before she emerged from the restroom, hair askew, eye makeup watery from what one could presume was a crying dancer, and River made her way back to the dressing room immediately.

Ignored questions, ignored people who may have gotten in her way save for the occasional insistence that no, no she was leaving. I'm leaving stop touching me I'm leaving. And she left. Tee shirt just thrown over whatever it was that she was wearing and purse slung over her shoulder.

It wasn't the first time a dancer's walked out. It's also not the first time someone has disappeared in the bathroom only to come out looking like a condemned man. Overall, the manager didn't care. River was paid in terms of rent for the next week. If she didn't want to work her contracted hours, more free time for the other girls, right?

--

The drive was quiet.

--

She got to the apartment, she didn't even bother to take off her heels, just dropped her purse and didn't even lock the front door. She smells like sweat and cigarette smoke and other people's cologne. It's a march to the bedroom, she's not gentle with it, though her brain tells her that she needs to be.

The only thing that is delicate is the way that River crouches beside Farrah's side of the mattress, puts her fingers in her hair and says with shaken voice, "hey... hey you have to wake up. I have bad news, you have to wake up."

Farrah
And Farrah hasn't always made a habit of sleeping like the dead but when she cannot count on having an extended period of time with which to sleep she has taught herself to keep on sleeping despite the presence of an interruption.

Some interruptions she cannot ignore. The hand of one of her people in her hair and a voice come along in its wake.

That hand has the doctoral candidate's eyes flying open and a breath shooting into her lungs. Not instantly prepared for a fight but not groggy. Too much adrenaline. It's River. Even in the darkness Farrah can read her distress. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

River
"Mike's in Denver."

She could have said any number of things, and it sounds like River might just get sick or start crying but given the way her makeup looks she has probably already gotten most of her crying out of the way in the car, or she is in that strange point where she isn't quite ready to be the one who needs help being pieced back together.

She's trying, though. Farrah knows she's trying but her fingertips are trembling and she tosses a glance around the place. Tried to figure how well they may have warded the place.

"The mages in Denver have this internal messaging forum thing and apparently he's been in town for the better part of a week? Maybe two? They said he was from LA, though."

He got there not too long after they did.

Farrah
"What are you talking about?"

Temporary disbelief granted by the hour of night and the fact that she was asleep until a few seconds ago. Farrah does not reach out to turn on the bedside lamp but she does thrust back the covers and sit up. Leaves a space for River.

"What messaging forum thing?"

River
She is fiddling with her phone at this point, trying to get it to that stupid screen so she could find the stupid phone number and her hands haven't stopped shaking yes and-

"When I went out with Grace and Elliott I went back to their warehouse and Grace set my phone up with this hidden network access," this sounds about as strange as when River is speaking a foreign language, except this time she doesn't actually understand the full depth of what she's saying  "-hello, Ginger-" she says to the phone, which is enough to get her to their hidden number menu system.

She's going through messages before she finds one that she can play for Farrah. River hands the phone over, there is no color on her cheeks. October 11th:

Hey, I got word from Pan about a visitor coming to town. Michael MacCarrick is his name. He's of the Euthanatoi, and he's in town to investigate a Nephandus who might be ultimately responsible for that woman-chimera that ended up in the park.

Our little 'experience' wasn't the first. Apparently there's been a string of fused women cases. He'd like to talk to Elijah and Samir about what happened. I told him I would tell you guys.

So I'm telling you guys.

Farrah
"Mike's dead."

As if that is the answer River was looking for. She doesn't have quite the visceral reaction her friend began having when she heard the message but Farrah has been cramming down her feelings about what they did since they did it. As if burial will bring about renewal. They can survive as long as they don't talk about what they did.

"I shot him. We buried him. It's... maybe there's another Chakravat named Michael MacCarrick..."

River
"Another one from California that happens to know Father Echeverria? And-and- after that? There's another message about some guy who was slit open like-like a deer you're trying to dress-" the only approximation she has, but one she knows pretty damned well despite the fact that they both know River doesn't hunt. "and they said there was the feeling of someone Working there."

There's a build, Farrah is being calm, or as calm as she can be and River puts her phone down in favor of finding the other messages "- I... I really want to believe that this is all one really unfortunate series of coincidences but it's not."

Her voice is shaking. River is trying very, very hard to hold it together but her breathing is erratic and she looks at her phone like it might be possessed and she's trying to be gentle but she can't.

Farrah
Farrah doesn't want it to be true but disbelief is only an effective means of coping with things that defy explanation for Sleepers. There is a reasonable explanation for this. They neglected to check and make sure he was actually dead. She didn't put a second slug in his heart after she'd put one in his head. He taught her to aim for center mass because it does more damage and kills faster.

A headshot man could wake up later and crawl out of a shallow grave. Especially if that headshot man was a fucking disciple of Life.

This series of logical events is making Farrah breathe faster. They are not coincidences.

"Don't freak out," she says. She puts a hand on River's arm. Pats it a few times and then stumbles out of bed. In a state of shock but still able to function for now. "Just... let me look."

She moves out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to gather what she needs to look back. Farrah never had much use for looking over her shoulder but there's a time for everything and now is one of those times. If it turns out Mike crawled out of his fucking grave and made his way here that is something she would like to know for certain.

River
River rattles off an address, somewhere in east COlfax- "they found the body there if you need to look there or- I don't-"

Don't freak out.

It was very hard to not freak out.

She hasn't bothered to take her shoes off just yet and it's questionable as to whether or not River is actually even wearing pants right now, but the tee shirt she's wearing could double over as a dress if she damned well wanted it to be. She's got her eyes on Farrah, though.

"It's going to work out," she says. Certain when she has no right to be certain, "are we staying here or going?"

Farrah
"I don't know." Banging cabinets. She's pulling loose a big mixing bowl and a bag of loose leaf tea. "I don't know, let me make sure he's not going to kill us before we pack up our shit and leave."

This rote of hers requires her to sit and contemplate the tea leaves in relative silence. She is hoping to look back to nearly a month ago. She would like to look forward a year. This is not a difficult task with which she's prevented herself but the reality of the situation sits like a stone in her stomach and she is beginning to feel like vomiting.

[corr/time 2: divining the past. base diff 5, -1 practiced rote, -1 quint.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (6, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

River
"We can't leave," she says, stammers, "I mean, we can't leave Denver. If he's really here there are going to be people who are going to get hurt and we know something and we can't just... "

This is what caused the problem the first time, you see. Thinking that they had a responsibility to deal with the trail of bodies that Mike was leaving but they've shown that this? Is a little harder than anticipated given that the guy can survive being shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave in the same place he had a rather valuable epiphany.

River hasn't taken her shoes off yet, walks over with a measured grace and sits down. Watches.

Exhales.

Doesn't say anything, tells herself to shut up.

Farrah
And in the time that Farrah sits on the kitchen floor staring into the bowl as the leaves swirl with the passage of her fingertips through the water and then start to settle she doesn't say a word. She concentrates on her breathing and keeping herself calm even when what she sees does not bode well for their chances of explaining themselves to River's new friends.

"He wasn't dead," she says in a choked voice. "He was just..."

She blinks. Now isn't the time to cry. She's still looking at the tea leaves.

"He got out. He got out, and he... he drove to L.A., after that, and he... I saw him talking to some girl, this skinny Middle Eastern girl I've never seen before, and then he went to that... that church, the one that Chorister he knows runs, he had some vision or something while he was in the ground, about some Nephandus..."

Everything River read on Ginger checks out. Michael is alive and in Denver not because of them but because of a Fallen.

"... River, he's..." Her voice threatens to break but she swallows down the saltwater. "... he's killed two people since he got here."

River
"If I tell people that he's killed two people since he got here, they're going to stop making headway on finding that Nephandus... and more messed up things are going to happen," she says. Thinks. Tries to piece things together because the puzzle is suddenly more complicated because he's doing his job... he had always been doing what they'd sworn to do but this time feels different. She'd heard the recordings, the sparse responses that were left on ginger from the denizens of Denver.

She has an incomplete picture.

"What if... what if we just tailed him or something, or..." she exhales, she's reaching. She's really reaching.

"We have an opportunity to do it again and do it differently this time."

Farrah
Farrah scoops the sodden tea leaves from the bowl and stands from the floor with tears unspilled in her eyes. Throws them into the sink to deal with later and grabs up the bag of fresh leaves.

"We have to tell someone," she says. "Or... or tell him? Riv, it's like watching somebody else when he's..." When he's about to murder someone. "Either he's possessed, or he's just pretending to be..."

To be a genuinely honest and good-natured person. No one is that good of a liar.

"... to be him." Shit. "He never said shit about a Nephandus to me, why wouldn't he say anything?"

[view the scattered lotus petals. scrying forward this time. same modifiers as before.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (2, 3) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

River
"Maybe we should just tell him? I mean, he might actually take it okay? I mean... he's never not believed us when we told him there was a problem," of course he would believe them , they hadn't done anything that would pin one as being untrustworthy until... well... recently.

"And maybe someone in Denver knows an exorcist or something, maybe he really is just possessed," it's sad, and she knows it is, when there is the sound of genuine hope in your voice when you're betting that your friend is possessed.

Though, there was the question of the Nephandus. River tried to piece through whether or not he'd said anything to her, coming up with nothing at that juncture.

"Maybe it just came up, or maybe this was one of those pet projects. It seems like... things just happened here. Maybe it's been a low lying case?"

Farrah
[extending!]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (1, 7) ( success x 1 )

Farrah
Again she goes silent as she tries to read the threads of their futures. Their futures are intertwined with Michael's future. His future is intertwined with the Fallen's. When she comes back from the future Farrah blinks to clear her eyes. This effect is less concrete than looking into the past. The past has already happened. The danger in looking into the future is creating a self-fulfilling prophecy and it's difficult to make sense of what one sees in tea leaves anyway.

"If it's fusing people together, that doesn't sound low-lying at all." She scrubs her face and leans back against the cabinet doors. She has been sitting on the tile in the kitchen this entire time. "Does Grace know anything about the Nephandus besides 'This Euthanatos guy is in town investigating and he wants to talk to these two assholes about what happened'?"

River
"I don't know, maybe Mike's standards for this is a terrible atrocity are a little skewed," she reaches, but sighs because she knows it isn't true. River knows what it's like when your ability to empathize with other human beings or recognize suffering starts to get out of whack. It's like your limbs going numb, but it isn't your hand or our leg that you can't feel but you know you should feel. Mike's never seemed like that. River's got an eye and an ear for that particular kind of taint on a person.

"I don't know what Grace knows yet. I got Ginger access almost a week ago and I just checked, a lot of things could have happened since the eleventh. I saw some girl disappeared on the news so many that was part of it?" she's reaching, but she shrugs again. It's a helpless expression. She knits her fingers together in front of her.

Looks at Farrah like an authority. She'd always been better at this.

Farrah
"I just tried to read the future, a little. I saw him with Grace. He looked like himself. Then I saw him..."

This is where she wants to keep what she saw to herself. She's already let River astray once. To do it twice in one lifetime isn't anything she can tolerate.

"That chick I saw him with in L.A. is here with him, too. It feels like this has happened before, like in another lifetime. I don't know how to explain it. But more people are going to die the longer it takes to find the Nephandus, I think."

Sigh.

"So what do you want to do? You wanna try and find him?"

River
There's a second when she mentions the chick from LA, the one that she saw Mike with and River's brows knit together. She'd been doing some research and-

"What did she look like again? The middle eastern woman?" a second, "tall? Serious? A little like a lioness?"

She waits for confirmation on that before she continues. Before she has to go through her database of people she has met and this doesn't feel like serendipity to River in the slightest, her heart is beating hard and she is holding things together with a tight grip alone. They have to do something, this was going to ...

Stop.

"Maybe we should just call him and talk. Somewhere public."

Because despite everything, she still wasn't... completely comfortable with the idea of the mentor they tried to kill knowing where they were living.

Farrah
A nod to confirm what the young woman she saw in her vision looked like and then the matter of calling Michael just to talk. Somewhere public.

That makes sense. It'll be harder for him to try and kill them if they do it somewhere public.

"Sure."

Dead voiced in this. She has to be up to meet with her advisor in a few hours and now she has to pretend like everything is completely normal and she isn't now dealing with the repercussions of shooting and burying her mentor and friend out in the fucking desert. Great. Fantastic.

"Who would we even tell about this?" she asks. As if they didn't already have this conversation a month ago when she first proposed putting a bullet in his head to keep him from killing anyone else. "It's not like he has a boss."

River
"I think her name's Ihsan," she tells, "we're meeting up in the afternoon to look into one of those crime scenes."

She doesn't like this. She very, very clearly doesn't like this. It's written on her features, in her voice, on her form, she does. not. like. this. Doesn't like how odd and intertangled this is, doesn't like how fate seems to be pulling things together in a picture that she doesn't undestand and why the holy hell does it feel like they've done this before, just with different costumes and River can't even grab from where this is going on.

"There don't seem to be any other Chakravanti in Denver. I think... I think it's just us," even if River wanted to appeal to a higher authority, they didn't have one.

Awkwardly.

"If you want, I can act like you didn't come with me. If... you're not ready to do this."

Farrah
"No."

Hard without being loud. Her voice hard and her eyes hard and she flares her nostrils as if she's preparing to argue with River. It does not often come to that.

"I'm ready, I just don't know what the hell I'm doing. And I'm not going to let you do it for me. We'll call him when you get back from meeting up with what's her face, alright? We came here together, we'll deal with this together."

A moment's suspension and then Farrah climbs out from behind her tea leaf basin and throws her arms around River's shoulders.

"Dumbass."

River
[WP: Don't start crying because you totally needed a hug]

Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (6, 7, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 4 )

River
River doesn't argue. Not often. Not that she doesn't have points, not that she caves when she does, just when it comes to things that she is ready to stand on she is non-negotiable. Solid. Unwavering whens he has convictions that need not waver... this was not a conviction. This was a new branch, fledgling and green. There is the moment that one has to wonder if she is going to argue.

But, she doesn't. Farrah throws her arms around River's shoulders and she, in turn, slips her arms about her waist. Pulls her in at her augmented height of pretty fucking tall. Platforms and heels, nothing quite like it. Closes her eyes and draws a ragged breath.

"We'll deal with this together," she confirms. Holds down. Like it's an affirmation. that neither of them were going anywhere.

Farrah
[WRAPPED :D ]

Barr Lake State Park

Ihsan Ghali
Barr Lake State Park:  flat and grassy and full of Canadian Geese, this time of year.  The park area itself was flat, and the snow-capped Rocky Mountains loomed in the near distance, cutting a tall and rigid black outline into the night.  There were no boats out on the lake this time of night, but the trails were always open for hiking and jogging.

The trail circled the entirety of the lake, close enough to have a constant near view of the edge.  One side of the lake was reserved for boating and fishing, while the other half was cut off to make a wildlife reserve.  The murder happened somewhere near the northwest corner of the lake, in a bayou that was a common fishing nook for those familiar with the area-- a sweet spot of many good fish.  This entire bayou was cut off as a crime scene, none of the public allowed in while police both roamed and protected the area, preventing the camera crews gathered from venturing further forward.

Ihsan had hiked her way out onto the trail about a quarter of a mile away from the crime scene, and was standing on the flat, open, largely treeless land with what, in the dark, looked like a large hiking stick in her hand that she was leaning lightly and casually into.  She was looking forward, surveying the scene, planning her approach.  In the slim dull light of the crescent moon above, she gave the impression of a lioness surveying the Savannah, on the hunt for wildebeast.

River Vasquez
"Ugh."

River Vasquez, in the very short amount of time that she has been in Denver, has developed a genuine hatred for Canadian geese. She understand that the serve some greater purpose, that Canadian geese have done nothing to cause her ire save for be menacing when she's trying to do yoga, and yet she still can not kick her irrational dislike of those stupid birds and their stupid long necks and their weird hissing noises and the fact that they walk around like they own wherever they are. She's not seen goslings. Doesn't know that baby geese can be really adorable, so for now they are nothing but animals to draw her utter ire.

Or, perhaps, it has more to do with the fact that she spent her entire evening with people who thought that shoving a twenty in her g-string meant that they could get her phone number. It did not mean this. She did the job for the gossip, and for now she was waiting to hear more about the supposed turf issues in Federal. Trying to figure out who worked where, find out who dumped bodies where and called it good. Turf is an issue, see. She knows this much.

Walks up along a trail with her bag over her shoulder and sunglasses pushed down over her eyes. She could be anyone. Really, River looked like a trophy wife who was probably just oblivious to the fact that someone had been killed in the place that she probably does her afternoon yoga. She was looking for a vantage point, somewhere that she could actually get a good look at the crime scene without having to make the approach, seeing if something maybe was going to hit her as inspiration and she could move forward.

The woman was wearing a pair of tennis shoes with treads on them for trail running. She didn't like having to buy more than a couple pairs. This one's worn in, but it hasn't seen much real trail time.

She comes upon a person, though, and maybe she had been in her own little meditative world but she was... not expecting another human here.

Here at the perfect spot to stare at a crime scene.

"It's a shame the view's ruined," she said, her voice giving way tot he fact that she hasn't grown up around native speakers of English.

River Vasquez
(Ahem. Heather believes in things like "Appropriately discussed time stamps" ONe moment *hides post under the rug*)

River Vasquez
"Ugh."

River Vasquez, in the very short amount of time that she has been in Denver, has developed a genuine hatred for Canadian geese. She understand that the serve some greater purpose, that Canadian geese have done nothing to cause her ire save for be menacing when she's trying to do yoga, and yet she still can not kick her irrational dislike of those stupid birds and their stupid long necks and their weird hissing noises and the fact that they walk around like they own wherever they are. She's not seen goslings. Doesn't know that baby geese can be really adorable, so for now they are nothing but animals to draw her utter ire.

Or, perhaps, it has more to do with the fact that she spent her entire evening with people who thought that shoving a twenty in her g-string meant that they could get her phone number. It did not mean this. She did the job for the gossip, and for now she was waiting to hear more about the supposed turf issues in Federal. Trying to figure out who worked where, find out who dumped bodies where and called it good. Turf is an issue, see. She knows this much.

She'd gone over part of the place during the day, just the boring parts of the park. Did her yoga, tried to focus, see if anything jumped out at her or if she had ever had an experience in the past that would trigger some insight. She's got nothin'.

In the dark, she could be anyone. Really, River looked like a trophy wife who was probably just oblivious to the fact that someone had been killed in the place that she probably dropped her iPhone while trail running. She was looking for a vantage point, somewhere that she could actually get a good look at the crime scene without having to make the approach, seeing if something maybe was going to hit her as inspiration and she could move forward.

The woman was wearing a pair of tennis shoes with treads on them for trail running. She didn't like having to buy more than a couple pairs. This one's worn in, but it hasn't seen much real trail time. She comes upon a person, though, and maybe she had been in her own little meditative world but she was... not expecting another human here.

Here at the perfect spot to stare at a crime scene.

"... should I have brought marshmallows?"

Like this is the world's most awkward camp out.

Ihsan Ghali
The person that River came upon was a dark figure in the dark light, made to seem like a shadow brought to life.  She was dressed in a pair of Levi jeans and a pair of hiking boots that looked new and pricey.  She had a black T-shirt on, V-necked and fitted as opposed to loose, and a black leather jacket that was cropped up and appeared more for fashion than warmth.  The nights were unseasonably warm, here on the lower ground anyways.

She noticed River approaching before she spoke up, so Ihsan had turned to look at her as she came alongside her.  The quick turn of the head, alongside the aforementioned impression of a lioness, made her face seem nearly feline-like for a second.  She had dark eyes, black in the night, that were opened wide and watchful, and her nose was shaped just so as well.

But no.  A person.  Something more, if you looked well into it, but not to the immediate eye.

Lips quirked a small smile after a moment of regard had passed, and she inspected River quickly while she answered.  When she spoke, her voice was like dusk and accented heavily with Africa-- Northern, specifically.

"And roasted hotdogs," she added.  Then, with a snerk to herself, "Pigs."

"Are you here with the media?"

River Vasquez
She's close to five and a half feet tall. Black yoga pants, zip up sweater. Her hair's in a ponytail, and she's got a tee shirt underneath. Sports bra that's pretty well guaranteed to make sure she could keep a steady pace running without feminine distractions. It was dark, but something felt like sunshine.

No, someone felt like sunshine. When she came by there was a feeling of warmth, of brightness, of something that felt like an ember that would not die down simply because the day had flickered away. Reflected in moonlight, reflected in intentions, she's there. Committed. Not strange in the slightest because she smiles and it seems warm, a figurative thing that comes with her literal presence.

"I am trying to keep as much pork out of my diet as possible," she tells Ihsan. There's a cadence that River has, something that is indicative of the fact that she would be just as comfortable speaking Spanish as she would English. She isn't pawing for words, though. Isn't faltering and pretending like she doesn't know the ins and outs of playing nice with people.

"Not the media," she said, "just a concerned citizen. I don't like not knowing the full story. Private detective?"

Ihsan Ghali
[Perception 2+ Awareness 2: Where's that sunshine coming from?]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Ihsan Ghali
The woman was warm like the sun, energy seeming to come from her core even in the nighttime.  Ihsan looked at her openly and sharply, like she was studying and scanning for intention, or something deeper.  Well-maintained eyebrows rose up on her forehead after a moment, and when she smiled the expression was friendly with intent but a bit sharp none the less.

"The police would call it nosy," she said again in that heavy-like-perfume accent.  Her English was well versed, her sentences complete and coherent, but there was no shaking the Egypt from her tongue.  She had been speaking Arabic alone for most of her developmental years, and had only come to the country a short time ago.  She picked up on English as quickly as anyone can hope, but lazy and inexperienced ears may have a hard time making her out on occasion.

Private detective? River had asked, and Ihsan's smile got wider.

"You figured me out so quickly," Ihsan chuckled a little, and looked back out in the direction of the yellow tape and flashlights.  "The boys in blue still look busy.  I don't think anybody could go unnoticed by them."

Why, Ihsan, are you planning on sneaking around?

River Vasquez
[Hmmmn, I'm curious about you... Per3+aware2]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 5, 10) ( success x 1 )

River Vasquez
Hmn.

There was a feeling.

She couldn't quite put a finger on it, couldn't hammer it down specifically to Ihsan but she had a feeling. A hunch, as someone might call it. A gut reaction. The police would call her nosy, and it does make River laugh. Cheeks turn pink because she blushes so easily. But it's true, River is nosy. She saw something and couldn't help but want to put herself in the middle of it because...

Because. She doesn't need to discuss her reasons with everyone, now does she?

"They just need to be distracted. And whoever is going to look around needs to make sure that they are... uh... efficient with what they're doing?" She does take a second, cocks her head to the side and tries to place  the accent.

Looks at her again.

"Lybia or Egypt?"

Ihsan Ghali
"Ahh, your ear is sharp," Ihsan said, still smiling.  The expression didn't look like it should exist permanently on her face-- she was somewhere in her early or mid twenties, by the look of her, but her cheeks were not shaped in a way that suggested she smiled while resting her expressions.  Not entirely a resting bitch face, not so much as a resting serious face.  Though the jacket masked the general shape of her shoulders and arms, the look of her waist and legs and neck suggested athleticism-- she was trim, probably jogged every day.  Or she was just born looking like that.

"Egypt.  Cairo, actually."

But the mention of efficiency and distraction had her looking back at River intently.  She was honed in and listening, paying much less mind to the crime scene within easy approaching distance.

When she spoke, it was slowly, like she was thinking aloud while simultaneously making a suggestion.  Making plans for them without waiting for River to necessarily consent to anything.

"If you were to pick one of the two, would you say you are a better sneak or a better distraction?"


River Vasquez
"My Arabic professor was from Lybia. I like languages," she says, smiles but seems content to leave it at that. There are defining traits about River that float around, eventually it does come out in most circles that she speaks an inordinate number of languages, fluently, dabbles in even more, is currently making progress through German though it sounds completely alien when she tries.

She looks back at the scene, thinks through her tendencies and capacity to be very hysterical in a very genuien way at the way crime scenes can definitely look and concludes-

"Distraction," she tells Ihsan, "can you get what you're looking for quickly? How many people have you seen so far?"

Turns her attention back to the crime scene. Yes, she is a strange bird. Yes, she is planning to disturb a crime scene with a stranger, but she's a stranger that River has a good feeling about.

Ihsan Ghali
"I found English needlessly difficult," Ihsan admitted casually.  When the smile relaxed away her face was a serious thing to look at.  Pretty, with unmarked dark skin and camel-like eyelashes (that's what you get when you drop money on your mascara).  "But I suppose that Arabic would prove the same."

River stated herself a distraction, and the smile was back.  Oh, Ihsan liked her.  There was nothing quite so delightful as a stranger who didn't ask questions and was willing to do what Ihsan would consider the less glamorous job so that she could do her legwork herself.  She gripped with both hands the walking staff that stood above her own head-- this a tall thing, at least six feet tall, carved from blackwood with lines carved in, spiraling their way up and through.  The top curved into a gnarled looking shepherds crook.  Her weight leaned into it as she assured the other woman.

"Nobody sees me."  It's hard to tell if that was intentional or a poor grasp of English.  "Can you give me five minutes?"

If five minutes could be promised (or not, truthfully, she'd take whatever she could get), Ihsan nodded and started walking-- right off the trail and out into the grasses.

Dice: 2 d10 TN5 (3, 6) ( success x 1 )

River Vasquez
"I'm sure I can buy you five," she tells the Egyptian woman, goes through her purse. Rifles through. River looks harmless. At the end of the day, River really does just appear to be a nosy citizen who wants to know what is going on at what couldvery well be a very bloody, very disgusting crime scene and that makes her stomach turn.

Yep.

She was a good, authentic distraction.

River is starting to head on her way to go be that distraction before she pauses, "do you speak Spanish?"

Ihsan Ghali
"Not even a lick."

Ihsan didn't look back over her shoulder when she answered, but kept walking out into the night until she found a particularly tall patch of grass to vanish into completely, save for the topmost crook of her staff.  Without exchanging anything so much as a name, the women had a game plan and the Egyptian was on her way without anything else to be said.  For now, at least.

Once out in the grasses, Ihsan would walk out and out for several hundred meters before she started toward the crime scene.  She'd gone off the trail on the opposite side from the lake so she had room to move, and it was this side where the body had been found further up the trail.  She started nearer, but paused a healthy distance back from where the nearest officer was.

Found a patch of muddy dirt in the grass, and after a moment of thought she stuck the bottom of her staff into the clodding dirt and dragged it about in a wide circle.  Further circles and squiggles and lines were added in the middle until a crude alchemic circle was visible in the shadows of the night.  When it was completed, she glanced up ahead to where the officers were, then looked down and raised her staff up some, then jammed it down into the circle's center.

[They will all happen to look away at just the right time -- Entropy 2 + Mind 1, +WP, diff 4(coincidental, unique focus)]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (2, 10) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

River Vasquez
[Past Lives 3 - Once upon a time, I was good at lying]

Dice: 3 d10 TN8 (1, 4, 5) ( success x 1 ) [WP]

River Vasquez
There is a mission to be had, and she takes a second to lookaround, buddy grass along her way and she does her levle best to simulate the appearance of someone who has been wandering around lost for the better part of an evening. She probably fell and dropped a coupe times. She probably rose up her yoga mat just at the corners. Rolls it in the mud some, too, so it is at least a little muddy. So it looks like River has actually spent some time here.

And thus, the young woman meanders, wanders , and headed over to where she saw there were cops. She looks up and draws a deep breath. Gets nothing but her own mental feedback. Clearly, if River had ever been anyone who understood how deception worked, they certainly weren't sharing their asecrets tonight. A series of card sharks and charlatains and not a one of them is showing their hand.

She meanders towards the cops, dirty, and loudly speaking Arabic. THe best River can do is feign not speaking English. Her Arabic, however is spot on.

"Oh thank god it's the police! Hey! Oh my goodness, you have to help-" completely heedless of the police line. Loud and obnoxious and probably a little confusing.

Ihsan Ghali
For several seconds Ihsan was completely still, elbows out and arms flexed taut under the leather sleeves of her jacket, as though she had to grip tightly to the staff or she would lose reign of the Magick that she was manipulating.  She stayed standing this way, focused and tense, white-knuckled gripping the staff, and beneath where it digged into the earth a quiet and subtle crackling began.  Barely-there dull orange embers licked their way out in the grooves of the circle from beneath it, and soon they had spread their way along the lines to completely fill the lines in the earth.  The mark was scorched in place, and would be visible there until the next rain would come to fill the mudd back in.

With Magick pulled out of the Middle Realm and into this one, a sort of cloud found and seeped its way into the atmosphere-- a very fine mist that could be felt and breathed by those who recognized it, something that when inhaled gave the impression of the types of miasma that came forth from surfaces, plants, animals to fill the air when they've been ripped into.  This fell around the officers without them noticing, and manipulated the strings of luck and happenstance about them, within them.

With this done, Ihsan smiled that sharp smile of hers, felt the lick of adventure, and bent her knees so she was nearer to the earth, able to step more precisely and lightly.  The staff was dropped own to be held on a horizontal plane instead of a vertical one.

Like this, she crept into the crime scene.

[Dexterity 3 + Stealth 2, -2 diff from previous rote]

Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (5, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )

River Vasquez
[Charisma+subterfuge+1 (past lives): I'm distracting!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 5 ) [Doubling Tens]

River Vasquez
She is a sweet, charming sort of young woman, but the police are starting to find that River? Can not be negotiated with. At some point during her spiel about being lost in what is a pidgin mixture of Spanish and Arabic (because most people don't know the difference between either, and somewhere River feels saddened by white people), she is going on and on. Has started crying at this point, too.

She looks at one of the officers, who looked like he was going to come and tell her to leave because this was a crime scene, and throws her arms around him. Wails and sobs into his nice blue shirt and rambles about... well, at this point she's talking about yoga. Hysterical women cry about all sorts of things and at this juncture she is really, really holding on to this officer.

He looks uncomfortable.

There is a strange foreign woman who is crying on him and has a hug like a death grip.

Ihsan Ghali
Ihsan became one with the night.  She may as well have been made from shadow herself, for how well she blended into the background.  She moved deftly, her hiking boots making not a sound, stepping only on the softest of ground.  Her shoulders disturbed no grasses her staff weaved through the landscape just as she did.  It helped, too, that when Ihsan came near the officers would just happen to hear a bird, or have a thought, and turn away either to check things out in the opposite direction or distract one another by calling to fellow officers across the scene and walking to conjoin in conversation.

It was with the ease of a lioness in the grass that she found herself close to where the body had been found.  As luck so had it the officers were all elsewhere, making reports around the hoods of their cars, typing things into their portable laptops, speaking with Dispatch on the horn...

Nobody was looking, nobody would see her if they did, when Ihsan reached into her pocket and pulled out a small drawstring pouch made of royal purple velvet.  She clenched the strings in her teeth to hold it still while loosening the pouch with one hand, then reached out and poured fine powdered red salt onto the earth in a miniature version of another circle, not too unlike what she'd drawn further out from the scene and left burned into the mud.

With the circle poured she moved the staff's crook over the symbol and waved it a few times.  Her free hand tore fingers and nails into the dirt and clenched it forcefully as her eyes rolled back, gone to white, and she looked beyond this time and into the past.

All the while, the salts caught fire and burned in a low, dull ember into the earth that nobody noticed for Ihsan was just that lucky.

[Show me what magic what wrought here in the past: Time 2 + Prime 2, +WP, diff 4 (coincidental, unique foci)]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (5, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

River Vasquez
(doobeedoo)

Ihsan Ghali
Good, Ihsan thought to herself.  River's hysterical pidgin-Arabic was reaching Ihsan's ears, whispering at the edges of her consciousness while she looked back-back-back into Time.  Her eyelashes fluttered over the whites of her eyes, and she found herself bumping up against something strong.  She was feeling out for what Magick transpired here recently, and found herself sniffing around a black hole in the timeline of what mysticism this land had seen.  It was a gap that suggested it was blocked off intentionally, and she could feel that block and knew it was strong.

Knew it would take time and effort and perhaps even teamwork to tear it away and see what it was masking from those who sought Knowledge.

With a small seizing jerk of her arm she released her clenched hand in the dirt and hastily brushed her hand off on the thigh of her pants where she crouched.  Her eyes closed and fluttered open again, as she found herself swimming her way back to the Here and Now from where she'd been.

"Fuck.", she cursed to herself in Arabic, and slunk silently away from the scene.  Her five minutes were up, and she wanted to talk with River again before she left the scene entirely.  She had been helpful, and she had the distinct feeling that it was no Coincidence that they happened to meet.

Some handful of minutes later, and Ihsan was standing back in the very same spot that River had discovered her before.  She was leaned on a staff that had mud caked on its bottom, looking impatient but calm.

River Vasquez
The hysterics eventually die down, and she apologizes in broken English and goes back along her way, only to leave the cops a little confused and some of them very relieved that she was leaving. She seemed harmless enough, just a lost lady in yogapants who, with a lot of help, was pointed towards where the parking lot was. And she didn't head to the parking lot but that was beside the point.

It takes time, but she gets back to where she and Ihsan had met, something pings like hope on her senses, that the young woman hadn't just taken the information and bounced with it, stuck to leave River to engage in her own investigation, again, and wait for another time that she could bring Farrah to look at this.

She had no idea where or what Ihsan had done, or even that she was going to call her Ihsan.

"Denver has horribly unhelpful investigators," she laments.

Ihsan Ghali
"Ah, yes," the woman with the dark straight hair nodded sagely, both hands comfortably gripping the staff that she leaned on casually from where she stood at the edge of the running trail.  She'd watched River's approach instead of the world around her.  They weren't doing anything wrong, after all, so she worried not if anybody happened to spy them there.

It was one of the benefits of being a stranger-- it was highly unlikely that people were going to sniff out where you lived anyways.

"But it has very helpful pedestrians."  She smiled at River and nodded her head up the trail in the opposite direction from the crime scene, and indication that they should walk.

"You can call me Ihsan.  I wasn't able to find much in the dark, without much time.  I think it would be better to come back when the unhelpful investigator squad has left."

River Vasquez
"I'm just nosy," she said with a little smile. Her nose wrinkles up just a little, eyes alight. She's content to walk along with the strange woman who says her name is Ihsan.

"I'm River," she said, "do you want to meet here again tomorrow... around... noon? They should have cleared out by then, surely."

Ihsan Ghali
"Absolutely," was the agreement.  So a date was made.  They'd meet back here around noon.  Same place.  No phone numbers were exchanged-- Ihsan was going to trust that River would be tied here by her curiosity and her own self-assured charm, and River would just have to believe that Ihsan would follow up true to her word as well.

So they would walk-- perhaps the entire way back to the parking lot together.  Ultimately, though, they would have to part ways, as Ihsan got into her rental car and drove off back toward the city.

River Vasquez
[Dobeedoo. Breaking some warding with Prime]

Dice: 2 d10 TN8 (1, 1) ( botch x 2 )

Ihsan Ghali
[Breaking Wards!  Arete 2, Prime 2]

Dice: 2 d10 TN8 (1, 10) ( success x 1 )

jamie
http://www.sadtrombone.com/

River Vasquez
[This is, like, a sad 1 point of paradox to soak]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (9) ( success x 1 )

River Vasquez
River: Oww. Soak?

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 4) ( botch x 1 )

River, meet Ginger

River
Grace drove.

It was reasonable to say that Grace drove because River had no clue where they were going and had been relying on her friend Farrah for a ride before she had decided that she was going to be enjoying a second margarita. There had been discussion of laser tag and the inevitable spiral downward into finding out that people trusted her and she was just going to have to deal with that because she very obviously was not a technocratic marauder-turned-nephandus bent on forcing corporate sponsorships on everyone or whatever it was that could be worse than technocrats.

So, she was getting out of the car, piled in the back seat if people would let her and the shoes click in her purse as she ets out. She's got a To-Go box in one hand, fairly intent on making sure the car did not smell like tacos and leftovers. She was not, however, so lucky as to have not transferred some glitter to the apholstery of the vehicle.

Sorry about the craft herpes, Grace.

Grace
Grace's car is a little dinky red thing that's a few years too old. She drives up to a place that seems similarly old and 'functional' from the outside. Two buildings, one a little shorter than the other. The taller one is a warehouse, the other is a two-story office building. Faded paint on the warehouse's side in the general shape of a cow makes it seem like this was once a dairy.

It's not a dairy.

She shuts off the car, steps out onto the asphalt of the driveway, and gives River one of her crazy-smiles. "Okay, we're here!"

As if 'here' were more awesome than it really appears...

She then strides over to the imposing, steel door in front of the office building, and slips her hand under a plate. Getting the doors unlocked here isn't so simple as a key. It pops unlocked with a metal thunk.

River
"What do you do with all of the space?" she asks. booping the car door shut with one of her hips. She walks on over with Grace, taking in her surroundings and trying to determine whether or not this was the kind of place that she was going to have to worry about being a random missing person that Farrah reads about on her twitter feed.

These people trusted her, yes, and she was relatively certain that Grace was not a deranged killer. And, you know, if Elliott was she could probably take him, right? Uh... that is not comforting. She's heard a lot of stories about the various ways that strippers go missing and visited strangers in a warehouse was one of them.

"... that is a really intense lock."

Grace
"Kalen's really concerned about safety. Something something end of the world, you know. This place is intended to be a safe spot for those who need it," she says, and swings the door open.

The other side of the door is so much more... Hermetic. Kalen's decorated the place, as Grace doesn't quite understand the purpose behind decoration. So, it is with stained cherry wood that the crown molding is made of, the rugs on the floors are Persian and wilder, more modern things that still appear to have been hand-made. Old maps that hang on the walls are framed in gold-gilt, and all the walls are painted in vivid colors.

She doesn't seem to even grasp River's hesitance about the place -- that it might be somewhere not-so-great. To Grace, it's just home.

"Where do you want to go first? We've got the library, and the laser tag arena in here... We could get coffee, if you want?"

River
"Kalen like his business card says, and not Elliott?"

This is how this looks thus far- she has exited her comfort zone in a strange but pleasant land to find people who shared the same tendency to break reality. This is not always a good things, as River Vasquez has found. She continues along inside to the place, past the door to take in the crown molding and the rugs and the vivid walls and-

She just takes a second. Then another. The young woman looked at the box in her hands-

"Can we go to the place with a fridge?" she laughed,m a little nervous, "what is your favorite part about the tour?"

Grace
"Yeah. Kalen's got a lot of names. Hermetics tend to do that," she says, lets the door shut behind her. "Sure, we can go to the kitchen. I think there's room enough in the fridge for another box!"

And thus, she takes the stairs. Kitchen is on the second floor. They're nice stairs -- wooden, with little grippy things on the steps so you don't fall. The wood was Kalen's idea, the rubber grips Grace's. The style and the function, you see?

River has attracted another friend, with her box of food. A large, sleek domestic cat with a spotted coat seems to be saying 'feed me' with his eyes as he pads up to her.

River
"Ohhhh..." she says, "so... he's not an axe murderer with really pretty eyes, he's just a Hermetic."

She looks down and at that moment she is distracted by the very presence of a very, very pettable-looking cat. She puts her hand out cautiously, then gives it a tentative pet behind the ears, down the back, settling to scratch at a place by the shoulders.

"How long have you been here?"

It's hard to tell if she's talking to Grace or the cat. River looks excited for a second, looking at the cat and then remembers she's talking to another human.

"After this can we go see... whatever is furthest from the exit, we can work out way back?"

Grace
"Hah! Kalen isn't an axe murderer. He's not got the muscle for that," she says, making a light-hearted jab at her friend. She doesn't mention that he has other ways to murder. But they all deserved it. Most were monsters, unsavable things.

"I think it's been... a couple years for me," she says, not noticing or caring about the fact that River could be talking to Persimmon.

At the top of the stairs, Grace wanders her way down the hall to a door like any other in the place, and swings it open to reveal the kind of kitchen that a person with a lot of money might buy for themselves and promptly never use. The appliances are brushed-steel, and very clean -- like the only thing that people use the stove for here is to boil water.

"The grand kitchen! Help yourself to whatever. We have to get rid of the cupcakes. If you want coffee, there's some cold-brew I made in the fridge.

River
Eyes widen and she immediately abandons her food (and her purse, which falls with a thunk and the shoes inside clink together) and she is immediately going over the kitchen in quiet awe. yes, they had a library. Yes, they also had a shooting range and they had a laser tag arena and they probably had any number of other things in this particular warehouse, but on the second floor the only thing that River determined actually mattered was the kitchen.

Food is abandoned, probably much to the joy of Persimmon, and River is immediately going over the range like she actually knows her way around and how to use these strange foreign implements of food torture.

"At some point. Soon. I am making you tamales," she tells Grace, "who is the chef here?"

Grace
"Hah, chef? Nobody. I could burn water," Grace says, and she could. Has. "We usually just rely on Kalen bringing massive amounts of take-out and living on that for a while."

It doesn't go without notice that Persimmon has followed the duo upstairs, and the pupils in his eyes have blown wide with the prospect of tacos from heaven. He's about to be disappointed.

"Persimmon! No! Not for kitties!" Grace says, and swoops in to pick up the taco box. Persimmon looks downright agast. Those tacos were his tacos.

River
She makes a face a little like she had just smelled something that was particularly unpleasant. She puts a hand up, shakes her head-

"Nonono, if I've been invited to use the facilities, as it were, I would be more than willing to keep you rolling in home cooked food. My parents own a restaurant in Chula Vista," she says casually. "I may be inviting myself over more than you wanted, but? Consider it bribery? Maybe?"

"I never get to bribe people. Es la verdad." Sad nod, though Persimmon gets the look of utter sympathy, "awww, Persimmon. So mistreated, it's terrible."

Grace
Grace gives the cat a squinty-eyed smirk. He squints back, not to be out-squinted. So, she takes the tacos and puts them away in the fridge, but comes back with a little sack that has his eyes wide open again.

"Give him some treats. He'll be your friend forever," she says, and hands the sack to River. Persimmon's eyes follow the sack.

"Also, if you want to come over and cook, I will not say no. We will get you all the ingredients you could want."

River
"My evil plan to endear myself to the magical community of Denver is one step closer to fruition. One bundt cake away from global domination," she doesn't quite whip out her maniacal laughter yet.

It was a fact, River had actually practiced her evil villain laugh in her younger years, having been given enough shit by her older brother that she was very awkwardly Wicked Witch-esque (he'd said her nose and her chin were too pointie, enough that she's still a little self conscious about the prospect of seeming stereotypically witchy. We digress) She had perfected it to a fine art, just enough that in the event that River ever was a woman built on world domination, she would have her unhinged death goddess laugh down.

She holds the treat in her hand, crouches down and holds out her hand, palm up and a little far out from her body like she isn't quite sure if the cat is going to try and eat her fingers or not.

"What sold you on Denver as a place to be? You said you have been here for a few years..."

Grace
"Cake! Yes to cake. Always yes to cake," says Grace, who digs in the fridge for her carafe of coffee.

Listen, River, if you start making food here, everyone will love you. Grace seems enraptured by the idea, at least.

"I came here for school, actually. I was here before I Awakened, and I just haven't in me to leave. There's good people here, River."

River
"What were you studying?" she asks, doesn't seem quite ready to question whether or not there are good people here. Seems to accept this-

Seems. Seems is the appropriate word because she seems hesitant, too. Reticent to venture forth into that. There's good people here, and where does she fit in, exactly? She does open the oven, peeks her head in and lets out a big, happy sigh. She shut the oven again and just beamed at Grace.

"So I guess the people who live here are pretty consistent? I've seen places that are a revolving door."

Grace
"Computer science," she says, pulls out her coffee, and shuts the fridge door. Next stop -- a glass to pour it in. "I'm a Mercurial Elite, surprise surprise."

Persimmon loves River. It's the kind of true love that can only be bought with food. He snaps eagerly at the treat in her hand, without any hesitation that she's new and therefore might eat him.

"People come and people go. Some people stay. It's the way of most places," she says.

River
"My microwave still blinks twelve," she tells Grace, "I am awed by your ability to actually... technology..."

She is busy petting Persimmon, or else there would be awkward hand motions indicating precisely how useless she was with technology. As if Grace couldn't figure it out by the fact that it actually took her both hands to get her cell phone off the unlock screen and her actively paying attention to it.

"So, there's nothing that's urging people to not stay? No... misguided marauders? Children of the Corn scenarios?"

Grace
"I am awed by people's ability to avoid technology. It must take a lot of effort," she says, pouring herself a glass of cold coffee, and returning the carafe to the fridge. She's not going to push any on River, she'll have to get her own.

Persimmon rubs himself on River's hand in the fashion of a cat who desperately wants more love food. He's started to purr.

"I wouldn't say that. There are always things encouraging people to not stay. We get our share of apocalyptic horror. I hear, though, it's pretty much the same everywhere. I'd say Antarctica, but they have research stations down there. I'm sure it's actually crawling with robots or something."

River
"I was homeschooled? I got a computer when I went to college. The restaurant still runs on paper tickets," how River wrote any of her research papers is probably an astonishing feat because... well... River sucks at using technology. She is proficient with text messages but most of that has to do with a very well adapted voice-to-text system.

"No more," she whispers to Persimmon, showes moth sides of her hands but goes back to petting the cat anyway because it was a soft

A beat.

"Didn't Lovecraft write about Antarctica? At the Mountains of Madness?" she quirked her head to the side, "so long as Denver stays Shoggoth free I think we have a win?"

River stood up, making herself at home and retrieving a glass after having searched for one for a bit and filling it up with tap water.

Grace
"Well, we did once have an Umbral spirit of terror visit the city, it was kind of like a Shoggoth?" she says. As much as she talks the city up, she's not going to lie to River. It can suck here.

"This is why we have impressive doors. And a pantry full of dry goods, and a locker full of ammo. Preparing for... eventualities."

To her glass of cold coffee, Grace adds some cream, and then closes the door to the fridge. Persimmon seems to have forgiven River for not giving him any more treats, because behind-the-ear-scratches are nice too.

River
"So is this... the base of operations here?  How many of us are there?" she sounds astounded, curious. They're prepared for eventualities and she leans back against the counter. River is an experienced cat-petter though, and can carry on the conversation with Grace while still going about her business as though she is not at all preoccuppied with an incredibly soft purry kitty.

"Just need to know in case there is some kind of standing apocalypse protocol I need to know about."

Grace
"This is... nothing official," she says, and the way she says it makes it seem as though she likes things that way. "There is a Chantry out in Morrison, if you want the true base of operations here. There's... uh... Well, in the teens of us? Not all of whom regularly hang out in this place."

Which is a shame. Persimmon would get more treats that way.

"I should get you hooked up with Ginger, if you're staying."

River
"Who's Ginger?"

Grace
"Ginger is our digital information drop. It's the way we keep tabs on whatever horrible or great thing is going on. I would need your phone for a bit, but if you're okay with that..." Then jump on in, River.

Grace's coffee and cream make a swirling mix in her glass, that she watches absentmindedly. Like, in the absence of another person in the room, she would just be happy with this.

River
"Ohhhhh..." there's this awkward moment where she isn't sure about this, drains the glass and eventually gives up on betting the cat in favor of going and retrieving her phone from her purse. It's of a fairly decent quality, but realistically the only thing River knows about her phone is that the camera is nice.

She hasn't updated her instagram since she was on the road, though. Kind of a waste of a really good camera.

She hands the phone over to Grace, held out far from her body like the phone might be a foreign body that she wasn't entirely sure wasn't secretly a bomb.

"So, is it... named after Ginger Rogers?"

Grace
"No. Named after the phone sex operator who provided the voice," she says, and her attention peels off her glass of coffee. She takes the phone, a little sheepishly. "I, uh, should probably explain a bit more."

"It was the idea of an old friend of mine. We've got to be careful what we say over the phone and stuff, because Technocrats could always be watching, right? So my friend suggested that we hack into a phone sex line and use it to store messages to each other. Sort of, a secret hiding spot, right? So when you use Ginger, it'll show up in your phone records as you really enjoying 1-800-FAT-GRLS"

She's sorry about that, really.

"But it's a lot safer than talking to people about things in the open. I'm not going to say it's perfectly safe, because it's not. Just, a lot of security thought has gone into this system, right? It's better than nothing."

River
"Well, I do prefer larger women," she says, shrugs it off because she should be embarrassed but her brain was, instead, trying it piece together whether or not this Ginger person was real and, if so, was she getting paid by the minute for the number of mages who were calling and leaving her dirty deviant voicemails.

Her imagination takes another turn, and this does make her blush because she suddenly realizes that she has, in fact, discussed metaphysical theories with someone as a means of flirtation. That she had gone home with her feathers somewhat rumpled and she had been very insistent I need to study prime now.

She should be blushing, but she waves it off, smiles some chipper smile, "that's incredibly clever! It certainly beats leaving people psychic post it notes."

"Do I need a handle? Do I use my name? Is this like a forum?"

Grace
"It is kind of like a forum. You can leave your name, or use a handle, your choice. I would use a handle..."

Because, if it ever were to get knocked over, having a trove of names available would be less than ideal...

"I guess that means you're still wanting to jump in on this Ginger thing?"

She finally takes a drink of her coffee, and the pleasure of that caffeine hit should not be lost on River.

River
"Oh! Yes," she nods again, "I give my full consent to be let into the secret sex line phone forum... thing."

She looks at Grace with an uncertain smile. Not at the concept, but rather that the technology might be something that goes right over her head.

Grace
"That's the spirit," Grace says, and promptly exits the kitchen.

Whatever, okay? She trusts River with a kitchen and a cat by herself. She also doesn't explain where she's taking River's phone, or how long she will be. It just doesn't occur to her.

If River's content to stay in the kitchen, she can. There's also nothing stopping her from chasing after Grace.

River
River opens her mouth, as if she isn't sure what it is that Grace is doing to her phone.

Closes her mouth again and sloooowly puts her water glass down.

"... okay, Persimmon, we're... um.... Mrph."

She goes to the fridge to try and find more cat treats. And to be a little nosy, what did they have in this fridge.

"Grace is not bugging your phone, she is a well-meaning Mercurial Elite who is not going to post your questionable selfies online without your permission."

Grace
Grace is not bugging River's phone. She comes back quite soon carrying a laptop and a cord that she's connected between laptop and phone. "Gotta install some software," she explains, as she sets up on the kitchen table.

Their fridge contains many boxes, River. Some couple of take-out runs decorate the shelves, along with some staples of cream, milk, butter, and Grace's carafe of cold-brewed coffee. Absent are many items that could reasonably be used to create a meal.

Grace will let River watch if she likes, to ensure that she's not riffling through private information as she works. River doesn't know yet, but Grace has strict internal regulations about not violating the privacy of people who have yet to constitute a threat.

River
Instead of watching Grace, which she does do for a moment, she instead spends her time trying to teach Persimmon how to high five with strategically placed pieces of taco meat.

"How long did this take to set up originally? This had to be an ordeal to undertake, I don't think we had anything like this in San Diego." And, if they did, River was conveniently out of the loop. The awakened community figured out very early that River was not tech savvy and, realistically, just going and telling her something was probably the best way to actually communicate with her.

Besides, she usually found things out pretty quickly anyway. She was friendly, and she kept the company of well-connected people. Not quite the same here, but she seems to be working on it.

Grace
River is going to break Kalen's cat. He's brimming with the excitement of new food. And he loves her. He loves her. Doesn't quite understand this whole high-five thing, but give it time -- Bengal's are smart cats.

"A night of hacking," Grace says, reminiscing on Operation Ginger, and a pizza well-won. Those were good days.

"Planning was a bit more than that," she continues.

It doesn't take her long, before she's handing River her phone back.

River
River is getting her phone back, but the cat did something that was remotely trying to acknowledge the fact that she had hands, so Persimmon gets the rest of the taco meat. Scratchings on the head, a bright smile from the woman who feels like a literal ray of sunshine.

"Hacking isn't like it is in the movies, is it?" Almost disappointed.

Grace
"Oh fuck no," Grace says, laughs like that's the most hilarious thing ever. "Movie hacking gets everything wrong."

She smiles at Persimmon, who has conned another human into giving him food. You think you're training him, River?

"But yeah. Anyway. Ginger's pretty easy to use. There's a new contact in your contacts list named Ginger. Call that number, and say the passphrase 'Hello, Ginger' and you're in. It's got a number menu thingy for how to use it."

River
"Just so we're clear, hacking does involve computers?" feigns cluelessness.

She nods at the Ginger instructions, looks at her phone and... uh... realizes she doesn't have any pockets so the phone goes tucked away safely into her bra. Disappears without any further mention, as though she had a bra of holding. River is, afterall, a woman. Women can do all sorts of things with a bra.

"So, on with the tour? Before Persimmon figures out that I don't have any more taco meat?"

River
(and fade!)