[Monty] Evening, and the building has emptied. On several of the floors the cleaning crews work, chatting and driving their vacuum cleaners across great expanses of worn carpet, ignoring their reflections in black windows beyond which glitters the city of Chicago. Harsh lights overhead, and occasionally the distant been and cry of a fax machine being jangled into life by a missive being sent in from the West Coast. Most of the city employees are long gone, stampeding out the revolving doors down by the lobby exactly at 5pm, but now, closer to 9, the place is as near to a mausoleum as it gets.
Except for Monty’s office, up on the ninth floor. Humming along to a softly played ABBA song (Knowing Me Knowing You), he sits before his great desk, going through a printed report, leaning back in his capacious chair and taking his time to examine the small print. It’s always in the small print that they try to get you, and it’s there that Monty hunts, looking for the screwjob he just knows Abraham down in Zoning must have inserted into the document. Otherwise he’d never have agreed so quickly to the County Manager’s terms.
Humming, idly turning each page, he waits, occasionally checking the clock. Ms. Montoya was due at 9pm. Instructions had been left with security downstairs to let her up. Two minutes before nine he picks up a little remote, beeps the power button, and watches the espresso machine whir to life. Coffee will be ready by the time she arrives, if she arrives on time.
[Izzy Montoya] She doesn’t always arrive on time, but this was a day were something went right, and she was able to leave her desk at a normalish hour, and even have dinner out. Luckily for her, she arrives in the lobby fifteen minutes early, as she didn’t expect one thing: His office being on the 9th floor.
“…fuckme.”
Anywhere else, any floor reasonable, and she would have taken the stairs, but even she isn’t fond of a 9 story walkup. She had given her name, showed her badge and been waved toward the not exactly much bigger than a coffin metal doomsday devices, and simply… stood there. Staring at the button. For at least five minutes. One of the guards asks if she’s ok, and that finally gets her to push the button.
[breathe.]
The door opens immediately, and thankfully at this time of the night is empty, and she manages to force herself inside and hits the number 9 with shaking fingers. She steps all the way to the back wall, fingers wrapping around the bar with white knuckle tightness and closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to watch that door close.
She counts the dings of the floors and tries to breathe.
[inhale. exale. inhaleofuckmegogogohurryhurryfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckexhale.]
When the doors open on the 9th floor, she propels herself forward and out, and stands there, gulping for air, fingers curled into fists so tight her nails dig into her palm, eyes closed as she forces her way down from a full fledged panic attack. One minute. Two. Then five.
[breathe]
Her chin lifts, her eyes open, she forces her hands to relax, and she checks her watch. She straightens her long leather coat, checks her weapon placement, and straightens her shoulders. Ok then.
A glance around to find the right office, and she knocks, promptly at 9:02.
[Monty] 9:02pm. Monty’s about thirty pages from the end of the report when he hears the knock, and with careful dexterity he flips the report closed, sends it spinning out across his large desk, and then with a practiced heave rises to his feet, his chair groaning under the sudden and violent stress imposed upon it. Moving around the desk, hand smoothing down his tie, Monty glides toward the door, and then cracks it open, peering outside.
She’ll notice that there’s a chain locking it from the inside.
A friendly eye twinkles at her through the crack. “Yes?” His voice is deep, a basso profundo, coming and reverberating as it does from deep within his massive chest.
[Monty] [Per + Emp]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Izzy Montoya] [You see NOTHING.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2
[Izzy Montoya] There’s a chain locking the office from the inside. This gets a blink, and then she lifts her badge upwards – force of habit – so that he can see it. “Detective Izzy Montoya. I’m not too late am I?”
Everything about Izzy screams cop, screams that she is exactly who she proclaimsherself to be. Under the jacket – business casual attire. Slacks that are dark, a lighter blouse tailored to fit her slim curves perfectly. Sturdy shoes. She even stand like a cop.
And there’s nothing left to show her distress of moments before, Dark eyes clear, and calm.
[Monty] “Not at all,” chortles Monty, and it’s rare that one witnesses an actual chortle. His lips spread into a smile, and he quickly unlocks the door as soon as he’s examined the badge, double checked it to her face, and satisfied his caution. Chain undone, he steps aside, opening the door to allow her egress.
The office is large, but not ostentatiously so. A heavy black desk is set toward the back, dominated and loaded with piles of paper. His chair seems custom made to accomodate his bulk, and the sound of ABBA fills the air softly, mingling with the smell of fresh coffee. A wall of shelves to the left, similarly loaded down with books and folders, and a small lounge area right up front by the door, with a narrow couch against the wall, and two armchairs facing it across a small coffee table.
“Please, come in, my apologies for my caution. You know, the Wyrm and all that, rawr!” He laughs again, making a clawing motion at her, and moves further into the office. “Coffee? Whisky? Both? Lemon tart?”
[Izzy Montoya] He chortles, and a familiar and easy smirk falls into place across her lips, lopsided and sure. She waits as he unlocks the door, and then steps inside the office. Larger than most, and heavy – much as the man who inhabits it. It fits, though the ABBA is a bit of a surprise.
He apologizes, and she studies him a moment, her hands pausing midway to tucking her badge in her pocket, before she slides it away, and slips from her coat. The handle of her gun gleams when it catches the light, resting securely in the holster worn at the small of her back.
She considers warning him that the flimsy little chain would not even stop her, should she be impatient, but in a moment of empathy for the man, she refrains, and simply drapes her coat over the back of a chair. He offers drinks, and the little smirking grin returns. “All of the above.”
A woman after his own heart – but with a much higher metabolism.
[Monty] A woman after his own heart indeed. Monty nods, pleased, and moves to the little mini-bar that occupies one of the shelves on the left wall. Adroitly he takes down two mugs, into which he pours a healthy dose of coffee, and then after unscrewing the cap from a half full bottle of Jameson, follows with a liberal dash of whisky. And then another half dash for good measure. Taking both, he moves back and sets them on the coffee table, and busies himself returning to the fridge, which he opens and extracts a lemon tart from, half eaten and in a plastic bin. A few more moments and two slices lie fresh on two small plates, replete with fork and a folded napkin.
This allows Izzy time to acclimate herself. What seems at first to be complete chaos–the mounds of paper on the desk, the tottering piles of folders beyond it against the wall, the marked up calendar on the wall, the overflowing shelves–slowly resolves itself into a certain poetic madness, or logic. Things are labelled. Dates, when espied, are current.
Monty himself moves with a certain poise, not quite grace but close. His neat little feet carry his heavy bulk with ease, and his hands clutch and carry with dexterity. Setting everything down before her, he takes a seat and consumes half the couch, and then regards her with glittering black eyes.
“Thanks so much for coming. An inconvenient hour for most, to be sure. My name is Montressor Sabine, rabid Get of Fenris kinfolk and called Monty by my friends. The lemon tart is home made. I’m newly returned to town after a three year hiatus, and intent on reaching out to others.”
His smile is broad, sincere, and he raises the coffee to his mouth and takes a sip.
[Izzy Montoya] He might be surprised to find her desk at work, and at home, looks very much like his own. She appreciates the kind of chaos it takes to make sense of towering amounts of paperwork. It makes sense to her, as dark eyes take in the little details – teetering folders, the calendar, the shelves that are dangerously full and all current.
She takes a seat, and accepts the cuppa when it’s offered, and nods her thanks. She takes a quick swallow – clearly used to drinking hot liquids far too quickly in order to disguise the taste of the swill the Station calls coffee – and makes a little sound of appreciation of the burn of whiskey aftertaste.
“My hours are often inconvenient. I’ve recently returned myself, after almost a decade of exile. And you can call me Izzy.” If only others of their tribe were so affable to that simple request.
A beat, and she arches a curious brow. “How do you explain your lock over there to those not of the Nation?”
[Monty] Monty laughs, delighted to be given the opportunity to explain. “My dear, I am if nothing else quite adept at fabricating and formulating little tales. As to that little lock, I told all and sundry that a cousin of mine was mugged in his very office after hours. Imagine the outrage, the shock as they sought to convince me that such an occurrence was impossible here.”
His smile is genuine, “Of course they thought me a great booby. But that’s part of the goal; I’m cultivating an air of affected nincompoopery, so as to help those who would oppose me underestimate my ability.”
A good sip from the rich Colombian coffee, “I fight my battles on paper. I have no qualms in misrepresenting myself otherwise so as to gain an edge when it comes to permits, licenses, motions and reports.”
Another sip, and he rests the mug on the arm of the couch. “Now, Izzy, did you know that there is a particularly fine form of soft drink named after you? No artificial preservatives, a fine and eclectic range of tastes, and really quite enjoyable. You can find them at Whole Foods, one of which is not but five blocks from here. Very convenient.”
[Izzy Montoya] She can’t help it. The little smirk of hers seems a bit warmer about the edges as he explains with such delight. She nods her head, accepting his story with the charm of one who can simply agree, and let it be. She trusts he knows his strengths as well as she does.
Strengths which include fighting his battles on paper.
She sets her mug aside, so as to taste of that lemon tart, a little sound of appreciation in the back of her throat as she does so. There’s a drink that bears her name. “Is that so? I may have to check it out, then.”
A beat, and another look around. “You fight your battles on paper… which area of law is your expertise? Were you known to the Nation before your little hiatus?”
[Monty] “Oh, I am not a litigator, my dear, though I often wish I were. No, I am the Executive Assistant to the County Manager. Which means I am her right hand, her left foot, her pocket book, dance card and agenda. It’s really a delicious position to be in; all who wish to approach her must pass through my door, and I have grown quite adept at guiding her where I believe she should focus her attention. I work with all the political deparments of local government here in Cook County, from the police, to the firemen, waste disposal, parks and recreation, budget and zoning, and so on and so forth.”
He smiles, rather proud of his position. “I was in Chicago some four years ago, and helped the Nation mobilize forces against the… well, the nasty Garou out in Moraine Hills. Did a fair amount of work, though I was limited due to it being within another county. So yes, they knew of me, and used my services, and now that I’m back, I expect to be used once more.”
A twinkle in his eye, though whether it’s amusement or resentment or something else is hard to tell. “Ah, the life of an entrance rug!”
[Izzy Montoya] [What the hell – is that amusement or resentment, Monty dear? Per+Emp]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2
[Izzy Montoya] “Ah, my mistake.” As detail orientated as she often is, there is a lot of information that is filtered through her mind on a regular basis. It’s not a difficult mistake to make, truth be told, but she files away the correction easily enough. “A good position to be in, I should think.”
Especially as he looks delighted in his work. She understands that – she loves hers as well, despite the toll it takes on her.
And now he expects to be used once more. That gets a wry smirk, twisted and a bit pained, as she nods. “They are good at that.” She doesn’t bother to hide her bitterness, or the underlying fury of her own current situation. It filters across her face, through the tightening of her jaw, the grind of her teeth, until she forces it away again.
She pauses to take another bite of the tart, savoring it a moment, before she nods. “One of the local Shadow Lord Kin is trying to organize a coalition, to help the Kinfolk get banded together, independent of the Garou. We’ve a meeting to elect the grand poohbah of the organization soon. You should attend – if you’re of a mind to do so.”
[Monty] “That should be interesting, yes. A meeting, a meet n’ greet. Perhaps there will even be snacks.” He nods then, affirming his decision to go to himself.
“Now, you are a police officer. A detective, I believe? It would seem–and I gather this from my own supreme detecting skills–that you are none too pleased with your current state with the Nation. Or am I being too forward? Please let me know if I am.”
He pauses, leaning forward a little, and then continues. “What are you currently doing for them? What’s your… situation?”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, and gives him the time and date of the upcoming meeting.
And then it’s question time. There are always questions, and one of the things that most often gets Izzy in trouble is the fact that she answers questions put to her a bit to honestly. Now is no different.
“I am currently incarcerated under the dubious ‘protection’ of one of the local Fenrir. I was given to him after he beat me near to death on a public street, because I had the audacity to request – again- that I be called by my name. I have my reasons for that insistence, but he will not hear of anything past his own narrow minded views of hierarchy and respect. While he insists that I respect him for his place in the nation, mine is beneath contempt, and I am only to be ground under his heel. You are well aware of this type of scenario, I am sure.” She did not miss his anger at being used… obviously.
The smirk returns, bitter, hard. “Currently, I am towing the line so that I can get away from him, but only because of the request of a man I respect far more than I do any true blooded Fenrir currently residing in the city. I am playing meek and mild, but rebelling in my own way, in my own time.”
She takes up her drink again, and a long couple of swallows. “Make no mistake – I do my duty, and I do it well. I have covered up more crimes creatively than should be necessary. I have clawed my way through the ranks of a male dominated field, and garnered respect as one of the more talented Detectives that Chicago has ever seen. I have also lost everything because of the Nation, and had to rebuild my career from the base up all over again during my exile from Chicago. I am a bitter old hag, who hates taking orders from teenagers who seem to think that because I do not have fang, nor fur, nor claw that I am stupidly unaware of what is happening – teenagers who wish nothing than for me to agree that they are better than I am in every way. I will take a beating every day of my life before I admit I am unequal to them. We are different, but no less important to the war.”
A wry smirk. “Does that answer your question?” There’s the unspoken assurance that has he more of the same, she will answer just as honestly.
[Monty] Monty’s face gradually loses it’s jocular cast, and begins serious, grave even. He sits up as she speaks, and sets his coffee aside. Clasps his hands together between his knees, and watches Izzy’s face intently until she finishes. When she does, she can see a sheen of sweat across his upper lip.
“Good lord,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “All this because you asked to be called by your name?” He shakes his head once more, and then stands, heaving himself up, hands on knees, to move back to the mini-bar. Takes up the Jameson, and comes back to retake his seat.
Pours himself another half measure into his coffee, and then wordlessly extends the bottle to Izzy should she want it. Then he sits back, gazing into his mug, lips pursed.
“My dear, I want to first offer my condolences for this horrible, disgusting treatment you’ve received. It serves… it serves to reinforce that our cousins are part beast.”
He pauses again, deep in thought. Looks up at last. “However, it would seem to me that direct confrontation is a losing game. You are incredibly strong–tougher than I could ever dream of being. But surely this route will see you broken? Is there not another route? Can we not use our intelligence to safeguard us against such atrocities?”
He leans forward. “Rather than capitulation or direct confrontation, can there not be a middle ground?”
[Izzy Montoya] “They will tell you it is a matter of respect, and I am a rude bitch that needs to be broken. I will tell you that respect is a two way street and yes, it is because I do not find being called anything other than my name respectful or acceptable, for reasons that are my own.”
She reaches forward and takes the bottle and gives her coffee a generous helping. She drinks like a Fianna, she’s been told. The job does that to her.
She smirks slightly, though, amused. “Do I look broken? Granted, he fucked me up pretty bad physically, then sent me to work. Can you imagine the fancy footwork I had to do in order to 1. explain why my car had been hotwired away from a crime scene and 2. protect him from my co-workers who want his blood?” She gestures, absently, and then shrugs. “It’s a simple request that I had made – politely, mind you – several times before I snapped at him that day. Whatever the reasoning, none of us deserve that type of treatment for so little an offense.”
She tips her head, slightly. “There is no middle ground with the Trueborn, Monty. I stand my ground, or I bow to their whims.”
[Monty] “well, you definitely sound like a Fenrir,” says Monty, smiling wanly at her. “All or nothing! It’s very brave, but, I fear, a little foolish.” His smile becomes sympathetic. “Please don’t take offense. I’m in the same boat. I have very little control over my own life, beyond the small things. Where I live, what I do, all of them are roughly dictated, and will always be, by the Nation. So, I speak with sympathy here, not derision.”
He adjusts himself on the sofa. “That said, your approach, sort of, ‘give me liberty or give me death’ kind of extremism, is bound to fail. My dear, we’re not dealing with rational creatures. Some of them may seem to be so on occasion, but all are pulled by currents we cannot fathom, fight wars we cannot understand, and are driven by a fury that will envelope us with little to no warning. You might as well reason with a hurricane.”
He shrugs apologetically. “To be honest, we’re dealing with a reality that is very medieval, and your modern sensibilities will only get you broken. Sooner or later.
“Do I advocate capitulation? Hardly. I advocate that we use our minds. Pick our battles. Concede certain battles so that we may win the war
“The way things seem to be heading between this warder of yours and yourself, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were killed within the next few months. What would that gain you? A moral victory? Pyhrric, my dear, pyhrric at best. No, we have to do better. We have to live with them, work with them, without losing our respect. But we do need a healthy dose of perspective. Your approach is akin to playing bloody knuckles with an InSinkerator.”
[Izzy Montoya] Something snaps. “Do. Not. Talk. Down. To. Me.” Its ground out, and then she takes a slow – slow breath.
[Easy, Izzy. Not the enemy…]
“I am far from stupid, Monty, and I’ve dealt with and fucked a whole bunch of garou over my lifetime. I know what they are.”
A breath, and and another swallow from the cup that holds more whiskey than coffee. Calm, now as she leans forward, and braces her elbows on her knees, the cup held loosey between her hands. “I have my reasons for fighting this fight. As with them, you are assuming that it’s not worth it – without knowing, without even asking why it bothers me. And that, my dear makes you dangerously like them.”
[Monty] Monty blinks at this sudden outburst. Goes still, watching, observing, and then carefully, carefully, sets the mug of coffee down on the table.
“Izzy. First, my apologies if I antagonized you. Clearly there are factors at play here beyond what I surmised. You’re correct–I assume that you were acting the way you are–suicidally–because of the usual concerns that plague us kin. If there are extenuating circumstances, than of course that changes everything. Will you tell me, or have I offended you too much?”
[Izzy Montoya] He apologizes and she takes a breath, and drags a hand through her hair, a breath held, and then released, before she sits back again in the chair. “I don’t mean to snap. Everyone thinks it’s a little thing, that it should be such an honor to be called nothing but Kinswoman by those who try to dictate our every move – and spend far too much time caring who I’m fucking and when.” Her smirk is lopsided, and the shadows she hid so well earlier flicker unhidden through dark eyes.
“All I wanted was to be called by my name. Not Kinswoman. That’s all I want, and I should not have to fight this hard for it. He won’t even listen. Only one person knows why – and he’s supposed to take it to Daniel, but that’s yet to happen. I’m losing faith that it will happen. I do know that Daniel will not hear the story from me – he has shut me down and said nothing else matters but HIS desire on the matter.”
A beat, and low, hard, bitter. “It is NOT a temper tantrum. I should NOT have to tell him why, in such a simple matter. That’s why I fight it. I will tell, but I shouldn’t have too. Do you understand that? I’ve given into him with everything else, I’ve toed the line almost completely – and STILL he will not call me by my name.”
A beat and then. “If you want to know, I’ll tell you. If it gets out, however, I’ll shoot you.” The last is said with a lopsided smirk. She’s kidding. Mostly.
[Monty] Monty listens to all this gravely. All traces of humor have left him long ago. Now he simply listens, fingers interlaced, lips pursed in concentration.
For a moment it seems he’ll comment, but then he holds his peace.
“I would listen, Izzy,” he says. There is he nothing of utility that he can say until he knows more.
[Izzy Montoya] Kemp told her to seek help. There are none that she can talk too but family – and most of them think she’s insane for fighting this. Maybe that’s why she decides to tell him. Maybe that’s why she says what she does – things that John doesn’t even know. She finishes off the liquid in her cup, feeling it burn it’s way down her throat warming her belly, before she stands abruptly. Not to leave, but to move toward the window. Open space. Open sky. Room to breathe.
“I told you earlier that I had been exiled – a bit of humor on my part. The short of what happened is that I pulled a coverup for something the trueborn did, and got caught. I had the choice of losing my career completely, or transferring to Miami and working my way back through the ranks and rebuild what I’d lost. I love my job – so I chose Miami.”
A long, slow breath. “We were working on a case – serial murderer – and we couldn’t get a foothold. We couldn’t get anything on this guy – he was slicker than shit on a glass doorknob, and every lead – even the crazy ones – came up empty. I knew something they didn’t, it was more than just a murderer, it was a Wyrm-tainted Kinfolk, acting with a Spiral pack behind him. The Nation couldn’t catch the either, and they were leaning on me pretty heavily to give them a direction to go in. A call came in, another crazy we thought, and since I’d be in the area, I followed up on it.”
She is lost now, lost to something else, seeing nothing of the Chicago skyline out the window, seeing only the memory now. “It took them three days to find me. In that time, I heard nothing but him, but them call me Kinswoman, berate me for my mistake, and…” She wont say what they did to her. She won’t put it to words. It was that bad. “Three days, Monty. I was almost dead when they finally found me, and it took months to recover. Every time Daniel refuses to call me by my name, insisting that it’s an honor that he bestows on me, I hear him. I feel his hands on me. I feel…”
She stops. She lifts her fingers to touch the window, and then finds his reflection in the window. “I shouldn’t have to tell him that. I shouldn’t have to say any of it, or what it does to me every time someone with Rage bears down on me and screams that I am nothing but a Kinswoman in my face, and that I have to earn my name. Every time it takes a little more from me. Every day it strips a little more of the dignity I’ve had to find for myself again, and makes me fodder to him, just as I was fodder for them. It’s a small thing, to be called by one’s name. But to me, it means everything. I have EARNED the right to be called Detective Izzy Montoya, many times over.”
She glossed over many details, but the pain is there, the pain is real, and it leaves her trembling by his window. Suddenly the room is too small – the memories too large, and she is visibly fighting to regain her control.
[Monty] Monty listens, his face growing paler as she talks. When she finishes, he remains still, hands limply held together in his lap, staring at his carpet. The moment drags out, her words hanging in the air, resonating, her story dominating the room. How does one respond to such a tale? What can one say that won’t sound inane? What can be done but to simply bear witness?
Finally, finally, Monty rises to his feet. He raises his chin, and his hands go into fists. He nods, once, to himself, and then looks to where Izzy stands.
“Izzy, I cannot express how I feel, nor guess how you must.” He pauses, as if searching for the next spot of grass on which to step. “I understand you. Where you’re coming from, or at least, as best as anyone can who has not gone through… what you have.”
He represses a shudder. “That is… that is the heart of all my nightmares, what you experienced. I cannot say anything except that I sincerley admire your strength… your courage. For you to have survived that, and more. To have come this far since then.”
He sighs. His words sound hollow, useless, pathetic. Finally he shakes his head. “Is there anything I can do to help you with this Daniel?”
[Izzy Montoya] She leans forward, slightly, pressing her forehead against the cold glass, her eyes closing as she takes a deep breath, and then another. She straightens her shoulders, then her spine, and then lifts her chin and takes another slow breath. “There are several lingering effects from it all – but that’s the worst. The word is a trigger. There is little I can do to control it – I have bitten my tongue near out of my head the past weeks dealing with Daniel and his demands.”
She turns and puts her back to the window, leaning against it. Part of her wonders if it wouldn’t be easier just to have it shatter, and send her flailing out to her death. Most of her knows it’s ridiculous and that she simply does not give up. She fights. It is for something so simple, perhaps, but something important to her.
“The only one who can reach him is the Jarl and he’s the only other one I’ve mentioned my past too. Either way, if I behave” And there’s that little smirk again. “I should be free once more by the Solstice. Even if he has learned nothing. I appreciate the offer, but the only one who can help is the Jarl, and in – as with everything else, much to my irritation – that I’m at his mercy.”
[Monty] Monty listens, and carefully links his hands behind his back, doing so only by linking both index fingers. He frowns, looks down at the carpet, and then slowly raises his gaze to that of Izzy’s, watching her, eyes glittering.
He doesn’t speak, not for a good long while. Simply examines her, and then, finally, nods.
“I understand.” His voice soft, “You have no choice. This is not pride, this is not arrogance, this is not naivete or immaturity. This is… this is your very survival, is it not? If you surrender this last stand, then you will be gone, washed away in a tide you cannot control.”
He shakes his great head. “I am truly, truly sorry, Izzy. If there is anything I can do–whether it be a mug of coffee and whisky and a sympathetic ear to something more official or practical, please, just let me know. I am here, as ineffective and silly as I may seem, and am willing to act as not merely a fellow kin, but, I hope, as a friend.”
[Izzy Montoya] Her smirk softens then, into something so few see from her; a smile. Warm, heartfelt, and not exactly beaming, but a smile none the less. “I don’t find you silly or ineffective. Everyone has their strengths – and… you listened. And you understand. I can’t ask for more than that.”
She smooths her blouse and is finally able to move away from the window and back into the room proper. Then she tips her head.
“Unless it’s another bit of that Lemon tart…”
[Monty] “My dear, I have three more at home, so please, don’t stint, don’t hold back, or I’ll eat it all myself before heading out tonight.”
He smiles, and bustles over to the table, glad to be given something to do. Flourishes the knife, cuts another slice, and turns around to hand it to her.
“I do hope,” he says, a little quieter, “That the Jarl can speak some reason to this Daniel. That… that he can explain things as they are, as they ought to be.” Said gravely, and with great feeling.
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles at his obvious delight at feeding her, and she takes the slice with a nod. “I can’t cook worth shit – this? Is quite a treat. I survive on take out and alcohol.” She settles back to sit in the chair, and digs in with a content little sound. Sometimes, it’s the little things.
To the last, she nods, slightly. “He was the first I told… in years. I didn’t want too, but everyone keeps assuming. I’ve tried to tell Daniel myself – he won’t listen. Kemp has said he’ll force him too. Hopefully, he’ll be able to understand a bit more if he does. Daniel is very VERY traditional. He doesn’t get women’s lib, and the desire to choose your own path. It should be something we’re allowed – as long as we do our duty, which I do. In spades.”
[Monty] “Hmm,” says Monty, serving himself a generous slice of cake. “Duty. Such a slippery word. It seems each True Blood, each Tribe, and every kin, has a different idea as to what it means. I wish I knew. Would save me a whole lot of bother as to wondering if I was doing what was necessary, or sufficient, or what have you.”
He sits again, adjusts his clothing, and spoons a great portion of the tart into his mouth. “This coaltion meeting sounds interesting. Are we gathering to do that, to discuss our ‘duty’?”
[Izzy Montoya] “Sometimes, the only explanation we’ll ever get is that if we’re not doing enough? They’ll be sure to let us know. They can’t even decide among themselves what they want of us. On one hand they want us to leave, they want us to run at the first sign of danger, they want us to be unseen, unheard, until they want to mate or they need something in our sphere of influence. On the other hand, they want us to work for them, without question, and take care of ourselves. Either way, they want it all on their timetable all at their command.”
She rubs the side of her nose with the end of her fork, then takes another bite before she nods. “It’s still in organizational stages. Danicka has said that it’s to organize ourselves, to help ourselves. I am sure everyone has their own ides what the want it to be. For me – it’s my little rebellion. Or it was until some Fang bitch told Daniel about it and ratted me out. They insist that our wardens know that we’re involved. I wasn’t going to bother, myself, but she forced my hand. For me – it’s about the training, the survival. Any little edge we can have during instances where we can’t run gives us that bit more of a chance at survival. Not everyone could have withstood what I did in Miami, what I have at Daniel’s hand. If I can help someone gain a tactical edge, the the Coalition is a success.”
A pause, another bite. “She’s divided it up into three sectors – each with a leader. Support, Training and Information. The next meeting will be to appoint a leader overall three to help in getting it organized.” She tips her head toward his desk, and all the files and folders there. “It might be something right up your alley.”
[Monty] “Hmm, indeed. That does sound like an arena within which I could excel. Or, at the very least, put my talents to good use. Hmm.”
He finishes off his tart with a few more bites, and then licks the spoon clean before setting plate and all on the table.
“Well, dear Izzy, I am so very glad we had an opportunity to talk. Again, my door is always open to you. I don’t know if there’s much I can do beyond offer tart and a friendly ear, but as I said, should you need it, it is here.”
He places his hand on his chest, and bows his head nobly. Straightens, smiles. “Unfortunately, as you can no doubt appreciate, I am inundated in paperwork to which I must attend. Can I call you a cab, or…?”
[Izzy Montoya] She finishes off her slice and sets the plate and silverware on the table before she stands and reaches for her coat. “Of course. I have some paperwork to attend to myself before I seek a clandestine meeting with a gentleman I am not supposed to be seeing.” She winks at Monty, chuckling. “As I, myself, am quite the tart.”
She settles her coat around her shoulders, but doesn’t button it. Instead, she checks the position of her weapon, making sure she has easy access, and then nods. “Thanks, Monty. For the listen. It’s a rare thing. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at all.”
And after a light touch on his shoulder, she makes her way to the door, and out.
This time, she takes the stairs.
[Izzy Montoya] [thassawrap!]