Gotham: Russ & Imogen
Imogen had spent an entire life moving. She'd never had a home that stayed. She'd gone where the road lead, and the only time in her entire life that her bed remained steady was those years in Las Vegas. She was too much a nomad by then to appreciate it, and she'd felt caged between the walls. Roofs were things for other people, and her parents had always liked open skies. Like the travelers her dad came from. Kale her father said the Romanichal called them, and they weren't particularly liked. But Imogen moved, and she loved the hostel in Marvel New York, but she walked away as often as not, and today she'd walked down a hall and into another world.
She'd read about the doors, and she'd read about the lockdown in Gotham, and she'd seen a name there that was familiar enough to make her pack her bag and slip it onto both shoulders.
She traveled light; it was only a day trip, but you never left behind what you didn't want to lose. The bar was a thirsty stop in a door that made breathing rather harder than she was used to. No rows growing things here, and H. G. Wells would have a fair bit to say about this place.
She walked into the bar, jeans low on her hips and tucked into fluffy boots that had belonged on someone else's feet once. Her camisole was white and eyelet, faded now and grey, and her blonde was a halo of mess as she walked up to the bar and put one knee on the stool. She had her violin slung, and not her guitar, because kale, and she ordered a lemon drop with a smile as she looked at the man on the stool at her side with open and fearless curiosity.