[Karl Gyllenhammar] A phone call.
”Its Karl…”
It went downhill from there. At least she agreed to meet him. Outside. A public place. A safe place. Germany remembered at least.
The cab driver doesn’t waste any time. The passenger in the back is not what he had in mind when he was sipping his hot coffee, idling in the taxi lane at the international terminal. Perhaps a fancy business type in expensive suit, someone who tips well. Not this. He keeps glancing in the rear view mirror at the man. Certainly not this.
As the cab pulls to a stop outside the Starbucks the man gets out. A few pristine bills changes hands (Forex is a wonder of the modern world indeed!”
And the cab takes off. If tires screeched dramatically, they would. But they don’t.
Karl scans the street slowly. A rough sewn military style bag over his shoulder. Then he looks up, and up, eyes widening slightly.
“nothing like this…”
A slight shake of his head and he turns his attention back to the street, back to the Starbucks. It was here she said, was it not?
People on the street passing the man takes an extra step to get around him. Dark, nearly black hair, shaved short. Icy blue eyes that seems to shine of their own volition. A hard, angular face. Back home, he was far from the tallest, but here, his 6’2 frame is clearly noticeable. There is something about him that puts him out of place, an outlook of violence, bubbling to close under the surface.
[Izzy Montoya] The coffee at the station is shit. It’s always shit. It’s sludge that is scalding hot, but carries the blessed levels of caffeine needed to keep her going night after night, hour after hour. But sometimes? It’s just not good enough, and when her duties bring her closer to REAL coffee, she takes advantage.
Of course, she’s the oddity. No frappachino americano extra foam no fat upside down caramel drizzled fancy bullshit for Izzy. Just coffee. Straight up. Cream and sugar on the side. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less, and she’s dying to get her hands on a cup of it, which is what has her stalking down the block, away from her car – unmarked, yet screaming ‘cop’ all the same – toward the Starbucks in question.
There are several things about Izzy that stand out: first, it’s obvious that she’s a cop, despite the fact she wears no uniform, and her badge is in the pocket of her coat. She walks like a cop, moves like a cop, smells like a cop that’s addicted to coffee and cigarettes. She’s also attractive, in her own way, if one likes strong features, dark hair and eyes, a lean form, and lips that tend to smirk instead of smile. No delicate flower, Izzy.
But mostly, for those that note such things, she is recognized by her breeding, that screams under her skin the tales of heroes and war.
[Moira Murray] The franchised coffee house of Satan ie. Starbucks, as Moira likes to call it was the closest known location to where she lived. It was open, popular with the locals in the upscale neighborhood that she had moved to in the last few months, and it was about a few blocks in walking distance of the loft apartment she had rented back at the beginning of the year.
Circumstance had to see her leaving it behind in March, but with the help of a friend, she was able to renew her lease and move back in… In a few months, she hoped to persuade the owner of the building to just let her buy it out. As long as she kept working for Mr. Ostermann that is.
A light drizzle of rain paints the concrete in dark hues of gray to near-black. It is a faint splash of drops that erupt suddenly, but isn’t enough of an inconvenience yet to send people running for cover. Moira takes her time, her head lifting up as she watched a taxi cab race by on the street, unaware of its passenger as it pulls up to the coffee house. Her right hand clasped around the wooden curved handle of the plaid umbrella, nesting it against her shoulder. Eyes draw to the man that steps out of the taxi, taking in the cut of this clothing and the shaved head.
The familiar image of the detective is the next thing that catches her attention. Instantly reminded of John as Izzy was the only other connection to him that she knew of. Her attention focused on the old kin as she seems to be making a bee-line for the Starbucks as well.
[Izzy Montoya] (OLD? I object!)
[Moira Murray] (ducks!)
[Moira Murray] (I meant ‘older’… yeh, that’s it)
[Izzy Montoya] (glare)
[Moira Murray] lol!
[Karl Gyllenhammar] Karl shifts his bag, seeming unconscious of the light drizzle. A sense of stability in him. It could probably be pouring down in sheets and he wouldn’t bother with it. (just water, acidic and dirty, but water) He takes a single step towards the Coffee shop in front of him then immediately stops again. Something tugs at him. A glimpse in the corner of his eye. A sensation along his spine, something. Intuition perhaps. His gaze is drawn to the dark haired woman (Police) that moves to step into the Starbucks, just paces ahead. Indefinable, undeniable.
“Ättling.” His voice low, but clear enough to reach Izzy. Perhaps the language is unfamiliar. Perhaps the word itself I for the kin woman. The tone of voice can leave no doubt what so ever that she was addressed, and she alone.
Yet something else. Someone else tugs at Karl’s senses. This one however, familiar, if only by remembrance from years ago. He doesn’t look away from Izzy however.
Karl doesn’t believe in coincidence.
He is about to be educated.
[Izzy Montoya] She is trained to recognize when she is being watched. She is trained for noticing the small things, the little minute details that someone else misses entirely. She is able to find a single strand of hair on a large carpet of the same color, she finds a drop of blood on a crimson wall, she finds fingerprints where everyone else has given up… it’s her job, her duty, part of what makes her so damn good at her job.
So she notes when Karl looks at her, when he says something, when he moves to join her entering the establishment. He says something, and she arches a brow slightly, and shoots back. “Bless you.” Because he sneezed. Or something. Right?
There’s coffee in there, and she aims to find it. She steps inside, and tosses back… “And stop staring at my ass.”
[Moira Murray] Moira has quickened her pace, only to make sure she catches up with Izzy and Karl before she loses sight of them on the street. They begin to enter the Starbucks. She can’t make out what he says to the Detective, but the tail end of Izzy’s response strikes her ears.
“You don’t really have much of an ass to stare at, Detective Montoya, so I don’t see the worry of him trying to look.” This spoken with a wry smile that manages to pull at the corners of soft lips. The dark lines of her brows lifting up in a curious tilt over blue eyes that remain focused on the other kin to meet the Detective’s gaze. Where Izzy is leaner and stronger in features, Moira is curvy and soft with an hourglass frame. Her hair – darker. Black waves that nearly touch the base of her spine when worn in a long single braid, small wisps of hair escaping to brush against her temples and cheeks.
She glances at Karl, waiting until he acknowledges her presence to say anything. The umbrella closed and shaken dry before she follows them into the coffee house.
[Karl Gyllenhammar] Karl rolls his eyes a little.
“Why do you always assume we are staring at your asses? If you must know, I prefer…”
Whatever he is about to reveal he doesn’t as Moira reaches them. Instead, he turns his head to look her over. Appreciatively, and openly. A twitch of lips in a ghost of a smile as he moves to make sure Moira gets in, even holding the door open for her to make sure she gets in before letting it go to close behind her.
“Ms. Murray. Thank you for meeting me.” He glances to Izzy, then back to Moira. “But I assure you, You would have been quite safe alone with me. Shall we?”
He doesn’t really let her reply before motioning to an unoccupied table nearby with room for all three of them. Taking the lead, he moves over and casually dumps his bag next to the table before sitting down. It seems coffee doesn’t much interest him at the moment.
[Izzy Montoya] A brow arches, and Izzy smirks. “Really. Never had any complaints, but I’ll be sure to ask John later. Though he has been staring at it for years, so he may be biased.”
And she’s stepping away to be the first at the counter. “Coffee. Black. Cream and sugar on the side. No, I don’t want your fru fru bullshit, just give me the straight deal. Thank you.”
It’s late, she’s tired, and she’s not the easiest of people to get along with on a good day. Today? Not a good day.
[Moira Murray] Moira chokes. Eyes widening slightly before closing, she shakes her head, tucking the closed umbrella under her arm as she watched Izzy for a moment. She starts to frown a little, but doesn’t really have a comeback for Izzy.
She wades through the tables to the one that Karl has chosen for them, assuming that Moira must have called Izzy to chaperon this little meeting. She looks over her shoulder at the Get, “I didn’t call her to chaperon…” she starts to say, “Though, it is convenient Izzy is here so you can meet her to.”
[Karl Gyllenhammar] Turning his head slightly to glance over his shoulder at the detective as she orders her coffee, then looking back at Moira, and this time, there is no ghost of a smile, its clearly visible.
“Of course, as you say, convenient.”
He leans back. It is such a strange thing. He seems completely relaxed. Even to the trained detective, everything about him says he is at ease, yet…
There is something not quite right. Moira knows him for what he is, and Garou always have an air of violence about them, but with Karl, it is…More. Better. Stronger. Imminent violence, born of rage, and a confidence that seems so natural.
“But, I am thankful. I was not sure you would remember me. A brawl and a beer only goes so far after all.” His smile seems genuine enough, and he is easily settling into his surroundings it seems.
“Will..Izzy?.. be joining us?”
[Izzy Montoya] She’s given her cup, and she moves to the side to doctor it liberally with cream and sugar, stirring it before she lifts the steaming cup to her lips and takes a swallow, hissing as it burns it’s way across her tongue.
She turns, and dark eyes sweep over the tables and those that are full, those that are empty, and those that are occupied by the Fenrir. She lifts her cup and takes another drink as she studies him. A few months ago, and it would have been different. Easy. Things are different now, and sometimes she still searches for her footing in uncharted forests.
He looks over his shoulder and finds her watching him. She doesn’t shy away from the glance, merely meets it evenly, and then starts in their direction, in time to hear the last question. “Why, should I?”
[Moira Murray] Moira slides into the seat opposite of Karl at the table. The umbrella hooked over the back of her chair, arms and shoulders wiggle to shrug out of her raincoat and lets it gather at her lower back. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table and cups her hands together to pillow her cheeks.
“That is for her to decide I reckon…” Moira comments just before Izzy joins them to answer Karl’s question. She turns to watch them, an eyebrow arching high over her left high to disappear under a sweep of black bangs. “If I remember correctly, you demanded a beer as payment for saving my virtue.”
[Karl Gyllenhammar] He shakes his head, smile turning to a grin.
“I considered asking for your underwear, but I was really thirsty.”
He looks to Izzy as she walks up to them.
“Considering you are already here, and a bred Ättling, I would be amiss not to ask you to stay.”
That strange word again, spoken with reverence almost. He rolls broad shoulders and looks back to Moira.
“My name is Karl. Please, have a seat.”
“I wanted to ask you a favor.” His tone turns a bit more serious, the grin fading slowly.
“I need you to direct me to where they gather, if you know where it is.”
Atleast he is straight and to the point. Fenrir bred and raised.
[Izzy Montoya] She studies him for a long moment, and then snorts, as she gathers the meaning of the word from the phrasing around it. She moves to the empty seat and takes it, setting her coffee on the table. “Detective Izzy Montoya. and if Attling means Kinswoman as I suspect it does, I’d respectfully request you use my name, instead.” Or he’ll wear her coffee. Or worse, become decorated with lead.
He asks a favor, and she lifts her cup and takes a long swallow, and lets Moira field this one.
[Moira Murray] She physically winces in her seat. Eyes closing for a moment as she hopes to not see a repeat of what happened the last time a Garou called Izzy ‘kinswoman’. She sucks in a deep breath, releasing it out in a sigh. Pretty features furrowing at Karl as she clucks her tongue softly against the roof of her mouth.
“You are not making good headway tonight, Karl. I don’t think you would’ve had a chance to get my into panties that night.” She opens her eyes to look at Izzy for a moment.
“They gather by the docks north of here on the waterfront. I can write directions down for you easily. There’s an old microbrewery called the Brotherhood of Thieves that serves as a hostel for those that can’t find a place to stay, if you wish to sleep there. And then you’ll want to get in contact with Kora or Joe Holst, a Jersey-accented Modi decorated in more swastikas than I’ve seen in a history book. He is alpha of Aesir’s Calling, Get pack and I think claims the role of Jar. They stay in a junkyard in Southside, near Bronzeville. I can call Kora for you if you want to set up a meeting.”
She fields this one. Her shoulders rolling back in a small shrug as Moira sits back in her seat. “Any other questions?”
[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”Good thing I was thirsty then.” Its clear to them both that he is amused about something or other.
He draws in a deep breath suddenly, eyes half closing. Its hard to be sure, but he might have scented them for a moment. Slowly exhaling, he looks to Izzy, nodding.
“Of course Ms. Montoya, if you wish it. I would not dream of giving offense.” Perhaps he is being truthful. The way he looks between the two of them, with some mixed, unidentifiable emotion in those icy eyes.
“If you can set that up Ms. Murray,” Emotion settles, neutrality once more winning over his voice, his posture, “I would owe you a beer this time around.” He stuffs a hand into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls up a folded piece of paper, placing it on the table and pushing it over towards Moira.
“That is my number. I picked up a pre-paid when I landed. Call anytime.” He reaches down for his bag.
“Now, this next question is very important… Where can I get a decent lager around here….”
The Rotagar has a lot of questions, and none of them important to any real degree. He does his best to enjoy the company, if but for a brief while before they leave him to go about their business, leaving him to his own.