[Drew Roscoe] Sometimes it took a little bit of fresh air and a stretch of the legs to clear your mind. Some blood pumping through your system that had nothing to do with confronting monsters or stormfront banks of Rage. Today had been rather menial, there had been class and there had been an earlier shift at work. She’d been sent home earlier than scheduled because business had been a little slower than expected. So she’d taken Basil out for a walk, played some fetch, had some dinner, and still found herself restless. Nine o’ clock felt too early for bed, even if she did have class in the morning. Something about having Garou in your life made your schedule gear itself a little closer to nocturnal.
So Drew’d opted to go out for a run, to pump blood without terror or adrenaline being added to it, to breathe in cool air without gasping for it desperately. She’d pulled on plain black jogging pants and a similarly plain black fleece sweatshirt, tied her hair back, put her earbuds in place and tucked her iPod into her pocket, and went at it.
For the simple sake of seeing something more pleasant than dilapidated houses and dreary half-melted banks of gray snow, she’d looped her way down into the Lake View neighborhood, where the brownstones were tall and historic, the parks were well maintained, and the streets were clean. Her feet beat the pavement to the rhythm in the music, and her eyes danced along the edges of the sidewalk she ran. She wasn’t terribly focused, more wrapped up in music, thoughts, and rhythm than anything else, but Daddy always said to keep an eye out for everything, just in case.
to Izzy Montoya
[Drew Roscoe] Sometimes it took a little bit of fresh air and a stretch of the legs to clear your mind. Some blood pumping through your system that had nothing to do with confronting monsters or stormfront banks of Rage. Today had been rather menial, there had been class and there had been an earlier shift at work. She’d been sent home earlier than scheduled because business had been a little slower than expected. So she’d taken Basil out for a walk, played some fetch, had some dinner, and still found herself restless. Nine o’ clock felt too early for bed, even if she did have class in the morning. Something about having Garou in your life made your schedule gear itself a little closer to nocturnal.
So Drew’d opted to go out for a run, to pump blood without terror or adrenaline being added to it, to breathe in cool air without gasping for it desperately. She’d pulled on plain black jogging pants and a similarly plain black fleece sweatshirt, tied her hair back, put her earbuds in place and tucked her iPod into her pocket, and went at it.
For the simple sake of seeing something more pleasant than dilapidated houses and dreary half-melted banks of gray snow, she’d looped her way down into the Lake View neighborhood, where the brownstones were tall and historic, the parks were well maintained, and the streets were clean. Her feet beat the pavement to the rhythm in the music, and her eyes danced along the edges of the sidewalk she ran. She wasn’t terribly focused, more wrapped up in music, thoughts, and rhythm than anything else, but Daddy always said to keep an eye out for everything, just in case.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] [you guys aren’t at the loft, are you? *LOL*]
[Drew Roscoe] [Noooo… Drew doesn’t even know where that is!]
[Izzy Montoya] [Yeah. totally.]
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] [ :[ FINE THEN. *shuffles*]
[Izzy Montoya] Keeping an eye out for everything is a good idea, even in this neighborhood. It’s the nicer area of Chicago, of course, and one Detective Montoya calls home – and sometimes, work is just a little too close to home.
Take now, for instance. Another crime scene, another drug deal gone wrong, another body, another doorway marked with yellow crime scene tape. Do not Enter it says, in bold black on vibrant yellow, though experience has taught the detective that rarely stops nosy garou from tromping inside and demanding answers – and then wondering why she gets pissy about it.
The scene has cleared out though, the last car but for Izzy’s shit brown ford pulling away, the flashing lights dimmed as the patrol car clears the area. Izzy’s the last to step from the doorway, ducking under the tape and moving toward her unmarked car that does very little to hide the fact that it’s an Official CPD Vehicle. She pauses on the sidewalk, digging into the pocket of her long leather jacket for a battered pack of cigarettes. She shakes one free, finds her lighter, and then bends her head, hand cupping around the flame to light the cigarette.
She had stopped smoking once. Then she moved back to Chicago.
[Drew Roscoe] The rotating flash of white-blue-red up ahead caught Drew’s eye, drew it in with the same kind of curiosity that was instilled in every human being when they saw this kind of thing, or heard sirens for that matter. What happened? Did someone die? Is it gruesome? Can I see? She pushed a breath of air out and slowed her jog to more of a walk, tugged the earbuds out of her ears, turned off her iPod and wrapped the headphone wires about it before tucking it back into her pants pocket.
There was a vaguely familiar face up ahead– sturdy frame, average height, brown hair, strong face. She associated it with family, though more along the lines of second cousin than anything else since she didn’t really know her that well. She remembered that she was a detective, and struggled briefly for a name. Montoya, that’s right, Kemp’s ‘you killed my father’ joke, and Joe’s picking at shit about Mexicans with it.
Sweeping her bangs out of her face, Drew slowed her trot to a walk as she closed her approach, glancing briefly at the yellow tape before looking to Izzy herself. “Hard day at the office, huh?”
[Izzy Montoya] Once the cigarette is lit, she slips the lighter back into her pocket, and exhales off to the side – just about the time Drew walks up and says hello, of sorts. Izzy looks at her a moment racing through the mental files to place the face and find a name.
Drew. She shot Joe. Too bad she missed. [bullet in the brainpan – SQUISH]
Everything about Izzy screams cop – from the way she stands, the way she talks, to her clothing – some would call it business casual, she simply calls it comfortable. Dark slacks, a lighter colored blouse that is tailored to fit her slender form, and that jacket. It’s a safe bet that under the open coat is the bulge of a holster within easy reach, too, and in the pocket, her badge. Add comfortable shoes, and you have Cop. And quite possibly ‘bitch’.
A smirk finds it’s way across her lips, easy and comfortable enough to suggest it’s a familiar expression. “You could say that. They all tend to be that way.” A beat, as she takes another drag. “Drew, isn’t it?”
[Drew Roscoe] “Yup. Montoya, right?”
Drew’s brow was slick with sweat despite the chill of the surrounding air, she felt warm inside the fleece sweater, good for insulation, but fought the stupid urge to strip it away and catch her death in chill by wearing sweat and a T-shirt out in the winter air. She surveyed the building, the tape striped across the front steps, then looked to the detective once more. Watched the cherry go bright then dim after the drag was pulled from it.
A hand lifted, dipped down the back of her sweater to scratch at her neck, then tightened her ponytail.
“So,” she said after a moment, with a touch of the remaining awkward silence hanging onto her voice, and crossed her arms over her chest. “There any news on the family front? I’ve been outta town, haven’t seen anyone to catch up with aside from you.”
[Izzy Montoya] A nod, slight, indicates that Drew is correct. A couple of steps, and Izzy’s leans a hip against the fender of her car, likely the closest she’s gotten to sitting down for a while. It’s just been one of those days. Weeks. Months. Her free hand drags through her hair, briefly, and lets it fall again, while that smirk slides to something oh so amused.
“Depends on who you talk too. Some would be fuckin’ delighted to tell you how I got my ass beat and incarcerated by ‘family’. Been a bit busy fighting the man to keep up with the rest.”
A pause, and slight shrug. “You leave before the first Kin meeting? S’a bit of organizing going on. Other than that – pretty much the same ole assholes, different day.”
[Drew Roscoe] Drew deadpanned Izzy for a few seconds, like she hadn’t heard her correctly, and lifted a hand to dig a pinky finger at the inside of her ear. Perhaps her earbud had actually messed something up like her dad always told her those things would. Izzy was still smirking like she’d said something funny, and Drew was left to take what was said at face value. She’d already moved on to say something about a Kinfolk meeting, but Drew wasn’t worried about that. She shook her head, held her hand up in front of her to indicate that the should hand on and go back a step for her to catch up.
“Wait. You got beat up and… locked up? By who? And what man are you talking about fighting?”
Izzy had leaned up against the car, and for a moment Drew’s body followed the motion, but she stopped herself. She didn’t know Izzy well enough to lean against her car, not to mention the fact that it was a police vehicle with the lights still flashing on the top of it. However, that didn’t keep her from propping her weight up onto one leg so that the hip above jutted out, the common female stance of ‘i’m gonna be standing here a while’.
[Izzy Montoya] [her lights aren’t going – just the ones on the car that pulled away were. my bad. :) ]
She chuckles at Drew’s reaction as she tries to figure out if she heard right, and what exactly she meant by it. She really didn’t hear the story then, from anyone. Which means people might finally have stopped fuckin’ talking about it.
“Daniel. Foresti. Beat me near to death because I asked him to call my by my name – repeatedly, until I snapped at him. As a result, I was ‘given’ to him, so that he could ‘train’ me in proper etiquette, which apparently includes us being treated like slaves and brood mares, and NOT being called by our names – oh! and also giving him far too much control of my sex life, too. I am still under house arrest of sorts, though I’m no longer forced to sleep in a bunk above his.” Under it all, there’s still a very real, very alive, very vivid fury, no matter the bland tone she speaks with.
“And fighting ‘the man’ is a simply a figure of speech – but in this case, the hierarchy of assholes fits well enough.”
[Drew Roscoe] Very nearly physically, Drew reeled from the onslaught of information she was given. Daniel she remembered. She also remembered his refusal to call her by her own name– but she’d gotten over that after a few moments and a chiding to quiet down and let it be by Joe. She remembered that he had no sense of humor whatsoever and a rather firm idea of what Kinfolk should be doing with their time, or more to the point, not doing (wandering the night alone). But then, Thomas ground his teeth to nubs when she went trouncing about in Bronzeville alone, didn’t he?
She stared at Izzy, half-aghast for a couple of seconds, then tipped her head to the side as she ran over all of that in her mind again, and came upon a couple of hitches that she felt some weird need to clarify.
“Wait. …No, the Jarl has guardianship of all the Kinfolk unless you’re, like, shacking up. And I was told that they don’t do that unless we’re, y’know, consenting. ‘Least Joe said that. He says we’re not appliances, you know? Proper etiquette has nothin’ to do with slavery or makin’ kids. It’s about taking care of everyone, right? Bein’ the human they can’t be.”
She paused, tapped her lip once, then nodded with a bit of a huff. “I get that sex life thing, though. Frustratin’ huh?”
[Izzy Montoya] “The Jarl is the one that gave me to Daniel.” Dry, that is, without any amusement. “And I am far from consenting in any of this. I made a promise to do what I needed to in order to get out, but that doesn’t make me consenting. Compliant, perhaps Biding my time, certainly.”
She lifts her cigarette and inhales deeply, filling her lungs with the gray-hued poison that serves to keep her fingers busy and her nerves calm. Ish.
“Kemp apparently thought Daniel would learn something. He hasn’t. He also wanted me to learn to keep my mouth shut and accept that I’m nothing but a lowly kinfolk to be stepped on. I pretend well.” Angry. And this is a blanket of calm compared to the first weeks… “Don’t let Joe serve you that pile of bullshit either. He’s very big on us knowing our place and accepting that they’re better than us.”
As for the sex life, there’s a slight chuckle. “Yeah. Well. Sometimes what he don’t know don’t hurt me.”
[Drew Roscoe] Her eyebrow lifted a little bit as she listened to Izzy talk, and she frowned uncomfortably and shifted her weight onto the other leg, glanced down at the toes of her running shoes and chewed some on her lower lip.
“Hey now…,” she started mildly, in an almost meek kind of defensive tone, and jammed her hands into her pants pockets, watched the shapes that they made when she flexed her fingers out and curved them back in.
“You sure it’s really… all that? I mean, there’s always two sides of the story, what’s Daniel’s and Kemp’s sides sound like? I mean, it’s nature, isn’t it? We aren’t the ones that can change, aren’t the ones built to battle the monsters and heal up all the damage in a week. We’re the support system, not the front lines. Aren’t we supposed to be supporting?
“It’s not them bein’ better than us, I don’t think, Montoya. It’s just we’re built for different stuff, and they’re all instinct.”
[Izzy Montoya] She just chuckles and shakes her head. “Trust me. I’ve heard their message loud and clear. I’ve even heard it in Joe’s voice.” She doesn’t say how. Some things don’t need to be known. “We ain’t equal. They’re bigger, badder, and better and we will always be less than them. Problem is – it SHOULD be as you say -we’re different but equal. But it’s not.”
She shrugs, slightly. “They’ve been quite clear in what they’ve beat into me, Drew. Daniel’s side is that I’m disrespectful and pathetic, and have nothing of worth – i have to earn everything according to him, including my name, despite what I do on a daily basis for the Nation, for the likes of him. Kemp’s view is that he hopes I learn to keep my opinions to myself. I do my duty, always have, always will, and something so simple as my motherfucking name shouldn’t be too much to ask.” A snort. “Shouldn’t have to ask for that at all.”
She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still new and starry-eyed, and like as not Joe’s giving you the soft sell. I’m a bitter old bitch, who’s been on her feet since 4am this morning.”
Deliberate change of subject. “So, where’d ya take off too?”
[Drew Roscoe] “Joe and Thomas don’t feed me anything soft. They just don’t beat it into me is all.” She frowned a little harder at that and shook her head. She shivered a little now that she’s had time to cool off from her run, and the chill of the winter air was beginning to sweep her bare neck and ears and penetrate the fuzzy fabric of her sweatshirt. Still, though, those hands stayed in her pockets and her feet kept in the same spot, even if her weight did shift back and forth between them.
The question of where she’s been came up, and she glanced up toward the woman after having been glaring at the yellow tape for a few seconds, blinked once, distractedly, then nodded her head in a general direction– northwest. “Alaska. Kind of a ‘growing up’ trip I took with my Boys. Met some people, learned some shit, all that.”
But back to that other thing that was so interesting…
“Where’s Sternfaced Dan staying these days?”
[Izzy Montoya] She takes a final drag of her cigarette, and flicks it to die a sputtering death along the wet cement, using the final exhale away from Drew to hide her knowing smirk. Her boys. Not anything soft. Joe’s pulled a good one on the pretty kin, hasn’t he…
“Alaska? Fuckin polar bears n’shit? Nice.” And odd.
She studies Drew for a long moment. “The brotherhood. And looks like I’m gonna have to ask you to keep what I’ve said to yourself. If you don’t…” There’s no doubt what she expects would happen. The fact that she’s tired after the day’s work is the only excuse she has for having said anything at all, really. “Not to Joe, Thomas, or Daniel. No one.”
[Drew Roscoe] She grinned a little, and the expression was just sharp enough from the aggravation that trembled underneath to prove that she was, in fact, descended from the hungry beasts of the northern warfields, even if that ancestry was only a faint thrum in her blood when compared to the hammering pulse of Izzy’s. Kinfolk were, on some small level, just a little bit wolf too, after all.
“More like man-killin’ wolves and black ice and hostile citizens and shit. Didn’t see any polar bears, but there were some avalanches and angry old men with guns.”
Looked like Daniel was staying at The Brotherhood, though, and Izzy didn’t want her to go talking about this conversation they had. Drew smiled, and the expression was one-hundred percent charming. But not in that sleezy ‘trust me’ way like that snake in The Jungle Book, it was entirely more genuine, something that shone naturally on her face like the summer sun on the world.
“Don’t you even worry. I won’t even say we ran into each other if that’s what you’re wanting. If I did? It’d be taken that you’re not learning your lesson or some shit and then they’d come back down on your head. Nah, I wouldn’t do that. You’ve got enough on your plate.” She tugged her iPod back out of her pocket and began to unwrap the wires and plug the earbuds back into her ears. She lifted her eyebrows significantly with a ghost of that smile remaining on her face, dusted there naturally as pine pollen on the ground in the southern spring. “You’ve had yourself a long tough day, I can tell. I’ll catch up with you more another time, alright?”
[Izzy Montoya] “Good. My mouth still gets in the way – back in the day, here? We were expected to share our opinions, expected to speak up. It’s just been a long fuckin day.” She looks toward the tape, and it’s as if she can see right through the door into what they found beyond. And something more than that as well. What happened in there didn’t sit well with Izzy for some reason, and it’s written along the strong line of her jaw, the clench of her teeth, the jump of the muscle at the hinge of her jaw.
But she shoves it aside. She always shoves it aside. If she didn’t, if she couldn’t, she wouldn’t be able to continue the job she’s chosen to do.
“I appreciate it.” A beat, and she digs in her pocket, until she finds a slim little case. From it, she pulls her card – simple white, cheap with Detective Izzy Montoya across the middle in black lettering. Two numbers there – the station, and her own. “Here. If you need me for anything, anything at all, give me a call. The bottom number there’s my cell, and it’s always on.”
[Drew Roscoe] Drew paused in turning on the little mp3 player, colored a bright and cheerful lime green to match her bubbling personality (most days at least), and nodded in agreement with Izzy, answering with a sharp grin. “Oh I feel ya.”
The card was offered, and Drew accepted it with her index and middle finger, clamping it between them like her hand was suddenly a pincer, and turned it over to look at the name and the numbers, the style and colors. Simple, to the point, she wouldn’t expect anything else. She nodded and tucked the card away into her pants pocket alongside the mp3 player, then smiled and nodded.
“Thanks. I’ll text ya later so you have my number too. I’m not that useful, I’m afraid, but I try.” She waved a little farewell, turned on the iPod, and rediscovered that rhythm she’d been running to a couple of minutes ago. She had some new information to mull over now, and a new agenda to work out. Maybe tomorrow’d be a good day to swing by The Brotherhood and see what’s what.