[Ksenia Turner] Look left, look right.
She knew where she needed to get.
Look left, look right.
Look at her arm- long and thin. Look at her nails- short and bitten. Look at her eyes, bright with rage. This place needed work. She had been walking through this particular neighborhood. Her hair was dark and tangled. Her stomach growled angrily, even if she ambled like she had nowhere to go. Like this big, bold, terrifying city was worth her attention.
Tall and lean.
Tall and starved.
Looking for markers…
[Izzy Montoya] It’s not necessarily her jurisdiction – but then again, when you’re the Homicide detective with the most cases solved, you tend to get sent all over the city.
Something’s a little off – send Montoya – she’ll figure it out.
Can’t find the murder weapon. Montoya will know.
No one else can stomach the mess. Montoya can, and will.
Someone’s dead. Send Montoya.
The car is unmarked, but that doesn’t make it any less a police car. She starts it, pauses while she lights a cigarette, than pulls smoothly into traffic, without so much as a thought. as easy as breath.
[Ksenia Turner] She knows what a Crown Victoria is. She wrecked one, once. Wrapped it around a pole after she had tried to drive without a license. Her mentor had been furious; she didn’t think she would ever stop performing Rites of Contrition. Respect the Territory of Another. Apparently? A Crown Victoria is a man’s territory, too. She had no idea. This, of course, had little to do with what was going on right now.
She was a tall, thin woman. With hands of a pianist and eyes like a cannibal.
Something wasn’t right, she stood with her thumb out and looking from left to right, hoping that she doesn’t get picked up by someone who thinks she’s a prostitute. Ksenia really didn’t want to shank anyone tonight.
[Izzy Montoya] There are streets where hitchhiking is ignored. Not necessarily legal, but ignored. this is not one of them. Not this close to an on ramp leading to the freeway.
Unfortunately for Ksenia – Izzy’s had a shit day. She reaches down, flips the lights that are low on her dash, in her back window, and hits the sire once. twice.
She expects the hitchhiker to run. She wants her to run. She doesn’t want to chase her – she just wants her to quit and move along.
The siren does the trademark little whoopwhoop… the lights, flash flash flash…
[Ksenia Turner] She expects her to run. Really and truly, she does. And Ksenia?
Stops and looks at the police vehicle. She doesn’t run, instead she takes a few steps from the side of the road. Oh, look, a police officer. She looked at the lights, and the female groaned. She doesn’t run, though.
Nope, she broke the law, she’s ready to talk to the law now. Easy, sistah.
[Izzy Montoya] “Fuck me.” She hoped she’d run. She didn’t. Which means Izzy has to call it in – which she does, hitting the radio briefly to give her location, and that she’s talking to a suspect – if she doesn’t report the all clear within a specified amount of time, backup will come.
She pulls over to the side, lights flashing. Only then does she put out her cigarette, push open the door and steps out of the vehicle. In doing so, she slides her weapon from the small of her back, holding it by her side. She doesn’t close the door yet – she just calls from the open door. “Hitchhiking is illegal here. You need to get to steppin.”
[Ksenia Turner] “Alright officer,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly even. She looks at the woman, and she cocks her head to the side. She is a pretty girl… sort of. She would be if she weren’t so intense. If her eyes weren’t so bright, if her teeth weren’t so sharp.
A beat.
“Wait.”
She looked at Izzy, really looked at her, and blinked.
“Whoa.”
[Izzy Montoya] The girl agrees. Izzy breathes. She starts to turn and then…
There’s that look. And inwardly, somewhere, Izzy groans. She still doesn’t move from the open door. She has one foot on the frame of the car. She has her weapon by her side, ready to lift and fire. The tension that winds through her at that simple ‘wait. whoa’ is visible only to those who might look for it.
Ksenia is looking.
“What.”
[Ksenia Turner] “You are really pretty,” she says. It’s a word-vomit moment. The first thing that came to mind.
She keeps her distance, knows what a well-placed shot can do. With all that ubbling tension,w ith all those tense muscles and sharp eyes… she knows how this works.
She is looking.
“You’re so… winter cold,” she said. The only way she could quantify it.
Fenris born.
[Izzy Montoya] A brow arches at that. Then she snorts, slightly, shoulders relaxing a touch. Just a touch. And then she adds winter cold, and Izzy’s gaze narrows slightly, and studies her a bit more. There’s winter cold. And there’s the rage of a trueborn that radiates even now.
eyes to wild
teeth too sharp.
“Can’t say as I’ve been called cold exactly that way before. New in town are you then…” It’s not exactly a question – it’s more of an acknowlegement of what she feels, tied to the look, the turn of phrase.
[Ksenia Turner] “It’s not a bad thing,” she said, “winter is supposed to be cold. It wouldn’t be right if you burned too hot.”
There’s all that rage. There are tangles and a lingering tan; she purses her lips and looks at her. The expression is far to direct.
“Might be, might not. What’s going on here?”
[Izzy Montoya] Her radio squawks at her, and she leans back to get a better idea of what the call is, and then she’s cursing under her breath again. A foot goes in to the floorboard.
And she answers just as indirectly. “Might be a lot, might be a little. Depends on the day.”
She nods, slightly, and then tips her head back toward where she came. “Duty calls. I’ll let you off with a warning. There’s a bus stop bout 4 blocks back.”
And with that, she’s settling into the car again, reaching for the radio. “55-David. Montoya en route. ETA 15. Don’t fuckin touch anything this time, Fitzgerald.” The door slams, the lights and sire are kicked on for real – and the Detective pulls back into traffic.
So much for getting sleep tonight.