corduroy */ falto

"OH, YOU ARE MOST WELCOME. IF WE ARE BEING HONEST.. IT IS ME WHO SHOULD BE THANKING YOU. IT'S NOT EVERY DAY THAT ONE GETS AN INVITATION SUCH AS THIS ONE." he knew that he was influential around town and that it was something that he had long ago gotten used to, because it was something that came with the PEDERSON NAME. wasn't it? and perhaps, indeed a small price to pay for everything else. wasn't it?

It was definitely the Pederson name that had Corduroy interested. Some of these highly influential people had fascinating stories about the city and its inner workings. He liked having access to both sides of the coin — and right now he wondered if Phineas' shiny side had tarnished a little bit.

After Cord brought two cups of tea, only one of them sans sugar, he let his body language relax, taking a sip before he spoke again.

"THANK YOU. I APPRECIATE YOUR TIME." and he could say that he appreciated the patience, too, because.. not a lot of people would have cared enough to interview someone like him. he was, after all, someone that had fallen from grace - he had been the previous mayor and he had been blamed for.. yes, a lot of things.

After tea was ordered, Cord took his seat again, unbuttoning his blazer and deciding it was a little too formal for the casual attitude he wanted to portray. Maybe he could pick up a few in houndstooth —

"I am trying to paint a genuine picture of the city. I think everyone has a voice and an opinion, even if it doesn't mesh well with the status quo — doesn't devaluate it."

Cord smiled politely. He knew that politicians faced an extreme level of scrutiny from the public, regardless of good or bad decisions. He didn't envy anyone in an authority role that answered to the masses — and this wasn't to imply he thought the public was always wrong, not the case, but no matter the move a mayor or governor made, there would always be a faction of people who loathed your decisions.

Besides, a previous mayor could be a treasure trove of information if Cord played his cards right. This wasn't about an expose, but instead trying to find the right angle to take.

Colin settled into the seat with a casual shrug, leaning back and looking around for a moment before turning his attention to Corduroy, sizing him up. "Tea? Sure, why not? Long as it's free and strong. Don't go gettin' fancy on my account."

"So, you wanna know about London, that's what this is about, right? You writin' a tour? 'Cause I ain't signing up for a bunch of loudmouth vacationers barkin' outside my boat before noon." He paused for a moment, smirking. "They'd hate it down there, anyways. River's busted. Smells like a damn rat. Just one big, giant, wet rat." looked the other over, waiting to gauge his reaction. "What's your angle, anyway? You get kicks outta this?"

"Getting to know London, yeah, that's part of it," he said honestly, figuring the man in front of him would expect nothing less. Cord knew that a meal and some extra cash in someone's pocket could make his interviews go a lot easier, so he caught the barkeep's attention and got them both some tea and chips ( he had to resist his American urge to say fries ).

Cord took out his notebook and flipped it open, tapping his pen on one of the questions he had there, wondering if these would be useful at all.

"Oh — is that Ga-linda, with a Guh ?"

"You're right, I ain't real. I'm a figment of your imagination." Rocket sighed, rolling his eyes. This always happened to him. Why did this always happen to him? "And, given I'm from your imagination. That means my problems, are now your problems." He gestured again to the bars. "And right now, your problem is a big frickin' metal lock." He held his tongue, resisting the urge to explain that of course he could totally pick the lock with his claws, but he'd just filed them down to a nice length and key locks have such a way of making the edges rough..."Well, I ain't real, so I can't, y'know...alter your reality, or whatever. Will you just open the flarkin' thing, dude?"

Cord wanted to laugh. Yes, this — new friend of his ( rodent would be insulting, right ? ) was humorous, and Cord wasn't completely against the idea of helping him out. It was probably the Aries in his Mars, or something, that created his sense of recklessness.

Turns out deciding to be a journalist was a great idea — if only he could get OFF the vacation column and onto a page that was reserved for true crime. But that would be a 10-15 page leap from the back of his current magazine to the front and he knew his boss preferred shorter, smaller leaps. Anyway, this was completely besides the point.

"Well, I suppose you owe me a favour since I am going out of my way," he said, pulling the lock picking kit from his pocket. He opened it, showing the tools to — the talking raccoon...

"It's complex when you wish to discuss business over dinner when the subject of business more often than not ruins someone's appetite." Morrigan mused before taking her time to chew her next bite. Eyes locked with the other as she swallowed, a subtle gleam of challenge pooling within the darkness of her orbs. "Luckily, I don't have that issue."

Cord smiled. He agreed that it was hard to maintain one's appetite when the discussion bled into business, but half the reason Corduroy invited Morrigan out to dinner was because of her business.

Something in him knew their hearts were different — not to imply any negativity here, but that his sunshine could not be bright without her shadows, and her darkness would not have its space without his sun-ray. He was fascinated by the differences he felt, but couldn't understand where these thoughts originated.

"No need to apologize, my mind's been in a million other places," he said kindly, his southern drawl always standing out amongst the usual Londoner tones. He had, after all, met a talking raccoon this week, so it was no surprise he wasn't paying too close attention to his pace.

Cord pulled his hand from his pocket, extending it to her, smiling.

Rocket clung to the metal bars of the cell, his sharp voice echoing through the otherwise quiet hallway. "Hey! You! Yeah, you with the unfortunate face!" he waved a paw through the bars, trying to get their attention. "Listen, the mayor's out stuffin' his face with whatever fancy crap these kindsa people stuff their face with, so, you've got a window here, pal." He smirked, the white fur of his brow raising. "You let me outta this tin can, and I promise not to rat you out for sneakin' around where you don't belong. Sound like a deal? C'mon, you look smart enough to know a golden opportunity when it slaps ya in the face." He paused, then muttered under his breath. "Or not. I dunno. But, if I'm still here when he gets back, I might feel a conversation comin' on. I'm seein' a lot of shady things right about now."

Corduroy saw the little raccoon paw wave itself through the bars, but he was certain it was an illusion. Lack of sleep, tired eyes, perhaps too much caffeine — the usual things a doctor would turn to should a patient say ' hey doc, i'm pretty sure i saw a talking, sentient raccoon '.

Alas, it was Cord's fault for sneaking down to the cells in hopes of finding a lead. He'd been avoiding his ' TOP TEN SUNNIEST VACATIONS ! ' assignment from the editor at his magazine in lieu of a trendier, more exciting lead — missing persons, all with connections to the cells underneath city hall. He wrongly assumed he would find old records, file folders ... not a talking raccoon.

"I'm pretty sure," he started to say, turning back towards the cell housing his newest friend, eyes squinted, "you're not real. But if you are real, wouldn't your little raccoon claws be able to pick the lock and set yourself free ?"