[Izzy Montoya] 1 2 3 not me!
[Karl Gyllenhammar] Bronzeville. Get territory. It finds Karl walking the streets. He has yet to join a pack, so he takes the time to move through the different places. Bronzeville He has seen enough now not to get lost in, but he is still learning the nooks and crannies, the alley’s that can hide dangerous things in the city. The Rotagar has no fear.
Few things are as dangerous as the predator after all.
Dressed as per usual, dark jeans, a grey tee and that well-worn leather jacket. Pale, glacial eyes never resting long in one spot as he wanders and searches. What he is searching for? He will know when he finds it.
[Izzy Montoya] One Rotegar that used to haunt these streets often said that her biggest problem was that she showed no fear. None to the Garou. none to the Enemy. None. He always failed to take into consideration her job, her career, her life as a kin. Maybe at one point she had tried to make him understand. He never did.
And now he’s dead.
But he is not the reason she is in Bronzeville tonight. No, the reason is clear, even as those at the scene begin to move away. The flashing red and blue lights are flipped off, the corpse wagon pulls away, the police cars at the scene head out to further investigations elsewhere. Soon, all that is left is one Detective Izzy Montoya, leaning against the side of her beat up old ‘unmarked’ vehicle, lighting a cigarette.
[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”It is an ungrateful job Detective Montoya.”
The Rotagar steps out of an alley just of to Izzy’s left where he had just watched the meat wagon roll away, leaving the kin alone at the scene. Karl takes a few steps out, then glances around, letting those pale blue eyes take it all in before settling on Izzy.
“It never ends.”
[Izzy Montoya] She doesn’t jump. She rarely does. At most there is a tightening about the corner of her lips, which could be due to the inhalation of the grayish smoke that most likely will never result in cancer. Her breed are, after all, tougher than average. Harder to break, harder to bring down, hard.
Dark eyes flick toward Karl, then return to the scene in front of her, with the yellow tape fluttering in the wind. It’s warmish today, but wet, the sky threatening to dump rain on them once more. Her coat is lighter than the one worn in winter, but still serves it’s purpose – it hides the weapon she wears, as well as contains extra pockets that she finds useful for a variety of assorted things. Right now, she drops ehr lighter and pack of cigarettes into the outside pocket, exhaling to the side, away from the oncoming Garou, before she answers with a question that’s almost more of a statement in and of itself.
“Which one.”
Job, she means.
[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”Take your pick. You’ve chosen one, the other given at birth, will it or not.”
The Rotagar moves closer, but stops a good 5 or 6 paces away from Izzy. At that distance, his rage is a tingle of ethereal warmth, a sensation of danger and at the same time, of life. Izzy sees more then most. The Rotagar is on edge, tense. Not caused by Izzy however.
“And I think both can be as ungrateful, as they can be rewarding.”
His voice is low, his gaze not straying from the kin woman.
[Izzy Montoya] “Really.” Her expression is bland, unreadable, as she lowers her hand to flick the ashes of her cigarette into the street. She meets his gaze head on, as she does so – something that caused others of his… their… tribe no small amount of irritation. She is a burr under their saddle, she is as prickly as they are in her own way, and she is more stubborn than any kin – even that of Fenrir – should be.
She never changed, despite what Daniel would believe he had accomplished. He saw an act, a show, a means to an end. Now that he is gone? Izzy is herself once more – with only a minor change he had nothing at all to do with in the first place.
“And what reward am I to look forward to from you.” An honest question, given her problems with the latest bunch of Fenrir Assholes to run Chicago streets.
[Karl Gyllenhammar] She meets his gaze head on. Those cold blue eyes does not betray any emotion. They give him a frightening appearance. Many Garou do not willingly look into those eyes. And while others of his kind would look down at the kin for looking in that way? A small curve of his lips as he shows a shadow of a smile for it.
“Reward? I don’t know you yet Detective Montoya. All I know is that you are very angry with us, and that makes me curious. So I want to learn more. About you, about the Why.”
He watches her for a breath. She isn’t a vapid little girl. He shrugs as he continues.
“I’m new, but something isn’t right between the Fenrir and their kin. I would know what has happened, so I can figure out if something can be done about it.”
Brutally honest with her. She knows liars, and the Rotagar? Quite the opposite for some reason.
[Izzy Montoya] “That so.” A brow flicks upwards, just slightly. If she believes that, or doesn’t, remains to be seen. She does not deny her anger, however. She does not deny that there is something not right between Fenrir and their Kin – indeed, all garou and their kin in Chicago. Her doubt comes in his motivation, in the fact that he states he might want to see what could be done.
Garou do not give a damn, and her suspicion of his motives is well earned by them all.
“I see.” Maybe she does. Maybe she sees more than he wishes to give away at all. She is a perceptive one, Izzy.
A beat, and another drag as she watches him, before exhaling to the side, away from him. “Ask your questions, then.”
[and, just in case, how honest iz you REALLY, mr. rotegar?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Izzy Montoya] (and also, boxers or briefs. HAHAHAHAH)
[Karl Gyllenhammar] There seems to be no emotion in those cold, pale eyes. Not unless you know exactly what to look for. Izzy knows exactly what to look for. And it might surprise her? He is as Brutally honest as he appeared. He truly does believe something is wrong, and he hopes that by questioning, by learning, he can find some way to start the healing. He doesn’t know about other kin, of other Tribes. The Get is his concern now, and only them.
Karl is not some American Mongrel. He is raised traditional in the homeland, where things are quite different from the turmoils of Chicago.
“The first time we met, at the coffee shop. I named you Ättling… Kinfolk, and you made it quite clear it was not something you appreciated. Yet you are one, undeniable by your blood. Your lineage.”
The Rotagar stands easy, meeting her gaze still. In fact, he does not seem to be disturbed by her directness at all, quite the opposite. He seems to appreciate the strength of will she displays, doing what some Garou fail to do.
“Tell me why.”
Oh, and Briefs.
[Izzy Montoya] It is the question that often starts things. The last time, it ended with her beaten to a pulp and imprisoned by the one who dished the beating, by will of the Jarl. This time… well. It remains to be seen. There is, however, a brief curl at the corner of her lips into a slight smirk. “That is not a question, that is a demand.” But she seems willing enough to let that slide.
For now.
Why. Why is a heavy story, a long one, and perhaps one he’s not quite ready to hear. She doesn’t approach it from the beginning, either, but from the end. Maybe she will tell it all – maybe not. Time will tell. “I am kinfolk by blood and birth, yes. I am well aware of the heroic deeds you can see in my blood. I was raised in the Nation, right here on the streets of Chicago. My family fought the fall of the Sept of the Giving Tree, and died in the attempt to protect it. Their graves do not even remain as testament to their deeds – only what you see in me. I am kinfolk – however…”
A beat, as she takes another slow drag of her cigarette, and exhales. “It is not all that I am. I am more than a label, more than a slave, more than a whore to be fucked and degraded and commanded and forgotten. I fight this war every bit as hard as you do, in ways you could not even if you tried. I am not less than you, than any of you. I am different, yet equal. I will not be degraded, and those who refuse to call me by my name when i request it are no better than the forces we fight against.”
There are stories there. long ones. But the one she tells is the most recent. “The last that I requested call me by my name, refused. I asked repeatedly. When I finally snapped at him for it, he beat me almost to death here on the streets. Instead of stopping him, the others watched. When he dumped me at the feet of the Jarl of that time, I was further degraded because I dared bleed on his floor. I was not healed. I was sent to work in a station full of men who want nothing more than the death of the one who dared hurt me, and forced to lie, forced to protect him, because they thought the consequences were deserved. I was further incarcerated away from my home, to live under the control of the one who beat me, so that I might learn to bow to his whims, until he became convinced that I had changed and become molded to his liking. The Jarl of that time wished that he learn something of me, of why I do not consider being labeled kinswomen respectful.”
“He learned nothing. I learned that none of you can be fucking trusted – and that some of you are no better than the enemy.”
And it is clear that THAT is only the tip of the iceberg….
[Karl Gyllenhammar] She spills it out. And it is quite a story. The Rotagar? He listens. He listens carefully. He does not make noise to stop her. Does not make noise to approve or disapprove. He hears of her beaten, abused and degraded. He remains motionless. If Izzy watches him, she can still read him quite openly. There is a spark in those cold eyes.
When she finishes, he stays quiet for a little while. His strong shoulders make a slow roll. A warriors instinctual motion, to keep muscles warm and supple, ready for anything.
“Anger well deserved.”
And still, he is truthful.
“I can not condone what was done. Neither can I change it.”
He takes a breath, exhaling slowly.
“You are kinfolk. I do not know what malady afflicts my tribe in this city. To me, the title Kinfolk is a vastly different one from what it seems to be here.”
A slight shake of his head. He does not volunteer what the word Kinfolk means to him. For Izzy, they would be nothing more then that at this point anyway. Words.
“Thank you Detective Montoya.”
[Izzy Montoya] You are kinfolk, he says. She snaps back. “I am Detective Izzy Montoya.” A breath. “Daniel liked to snarl that my name told him nothing about me, that it was pathetic and stupid. It is my name, and his inability to see that, and the rest of the Fenrir’s inability to fucking care for the wishes of one of their own..”
Bitter, bitter Izzy. She finishes off her cigarette, and flicks it into the gutter to die a sputtering death in the puddle there. There are shadows in her eyes, memory twisted in pain, that she hides away from him as she watches the cigarette fall, before she can push it aside again.
Her chin lifts, and she meets his gaze once more, her own again unreadable. “I have reasons for not wishing to be called Kinswoman, reasons that to me it is no honor, but a trigger instead. He never cared to find out why – no one has. I was told it did not matter. In effect, that I do not matter to the Fenrir here. Yet still I do my job – not only for the city of Chicago, but primarily for you, despite being berated for it, and seen as useless. I have lost count of the times I have saved your asses from the mundanes, protecting the veil. I have also lost count of the times the Sept here has told me my work was useless and pathetic.”
A lift of her shoulder into a shrug, before she tucks her hand into the pocket of her slacks. “What the title means to you matters little to me. If you respect what it means to me and my requests, that matters to me.”
[Karl Gyllenhammar] She snaps at him, and he raises a brow, listening to her. When she finishes, he nods.
“Then tell me your reason. Tell me why a word that in the old tongue means honored one has become to you such an insult.”
He breathes evenly. She snaps. She barks and faces him down. He is Get of Fenris, yet he is acting nothing like the Get of this city, not yet.
[Izzy Montoya] This… this will take another cigarette. It’s a story she does not like to tell, that much is clear. It’s a story that still has the ability to affect her, that much is also clear as she shakes out a cigarette from her battered pack with hands that suddenly want to tremble. The pack is tucked away again, and she digs out her lighter and sets flame to paper and tobacco, cupping the flame to protect it from the Chicago wind. Lighter tucked away again, she inhales deeply, and then exhales slowly.
“It is a long story.”
She does not meet his gaze for this. Instead, she watches the wall behind him, the fluttering yellow crime tape, the crime scene that she knows intimately behind it. And somehow, she doesn’t see any of it. She doesn’t even see him. Her voice, when it comes, is soft. Pained. Rushed.
“About 10 years ago, I fucked up here when I was covering up a crime scene for the Sept here. I got caught. To save the other kinfolk on the case, I took a deal – I was demoted, and transferred to Miami to rebuild my career and reputation. While I was there, i transferred to homicide.” A breath. A drag. An exhale.
“We were working a serial murder case. He was a slippery fuck, and we had exhausted every lead. He wasn’t just killing mundanes – he was slaughtering kinfolk, and True. I had the Nation breathing down my neck for any leads as well, and we kept coming up with nothing. We even followed the crazy ones – and nada. One night, another crazy tip came in, and since I was in the area getting dinner, I followed it. Another mistake, and one he was waiting for.”
A visible tremble works through her frame, for all that she ignores it, and pretends it’s not happening until it disappears again, and shoulders straighten. No weakness.
“It took them three days to find me. Three days of…” a beat, until a word is chosen, a word that does nothing to convey the horrors she survived during that time. “…torture at the hands of the killer and his pack, while that fucker sneered ‘kinswoman’ at me. The Nation finally found me, thanks to another kin on the force. He received commendations. I got a medal for bravery or some such fucking bullshit.”
Another drag, deep, and slow exhale as she finally meets his gaze. “They healed me enough to make the story consistent to the City. The rest I healed on my own. It took months, and some things do not go away. The word – that title that you find so honored – is a trigger for me. I cannot help my reaction to it, no more than I can help the fact that small spaces freak me the motherfuck out. Daniel did not care for that either, demanding I sleep in a small room with him and two other True, uncaring that I physically could not bring myself to enter that room. He called it a temper tantrum. As have many other of you.”
She shakes her head, briefly. “I have reasons for being the way that I am, for feeling the way that I do. You are the first to ask why.” Only time will tell if it matters in the end that she has shared this with him. It’s not hard to see which way she sees that coin falling…
[Karl Gyllenhammar] He doesnt pressure her. He is standing, relaxed for one of his kind, as relaxed as they ever get, and he is listening to her. He made his choice to be honest with her, to be open, figuring he had little to loose, and all to gain. She has a hard time telling the story. He can understand why. She… Skips over details. She doesn’t need to tell him. He knows what the Wyrm is capable of doing. He doesn’t need details to realize the horror the kin has gone through, or why the word Kinfolk had become such a hated thing.
She finishes, and he nods, just a tilt of chin. Not upwards like so many seem to do here in the city.
“Yes. I do understand why. I believe Detective Montoya is a fine name. The word is hateful to you, and I will not say it aloud again. I believe you have earned as much.”
He moves then, finally, walking slowly towards her, closing the gap. His rage an undeniable force around him. He stops next to her, looking down at her.
“Where I come from, the Valkyria, they are women of great strength. Not Garou. They are the guides of the fallen, chosen for their strength of will, their spirit to travel the battlefield among the honored dead. You remind me of them Detective Montoya. So that is what you will be to me.”
Then he is moving past her, just an inch from her, but never touching, stepping away slowly, until that press of rage diminishes again.
[Izzy Montoya] He starts toward her, and her spine straightens, an iron band wrapped around that pulls her shoulders tight, until they almost physically ache with the strain, with the attention she pays to every detail of the Garou that moves toward her. He walks slowly, and closes the gap, his rage slicing through her, though she does not pull away from it. He looks down at her, and she meets his gaze, defiant and strong and unbending.
She is Fenrir.
She is CPD Homicide.
She simply is.
In the end, her reply is simple – yet filled with complexity. “Thank you.”
[Karl Gyllenhammar] ”Do not thank me yet Detective Montoya. All I did was listen. That is the easy part. I still have a lot of learning and listening to do before I can try to do anything. This is just a start, and I am just one Fenrir. So far.”
He doesn’t turn back to her, but he has stopped a little ways away, far enough so that his rage is once more just that shimmering of a sensation.
“And you have earned the right to be listened to as far as I am concerned.”
[Izzy Montoya] “It is more than any other True has done, aside from the one who listened, then did nothing.” She takes a final drag off that cigarette she practically inhaled in the recounting of her story, and then tosses the butt away. She does not shy from his rage. In fact, were this months before, there would be an altogether different reaction visible. But times change. Things change.
One thing has changed for Izzy since coming home. “There is another, John Thornton. He is like me in many ways, different in many others. He is newer to the life – having just found out a couple of years ago. He is the man I took the fall for, and the man I returned to Chicago for. The treatment of us here…” She doesn’t elaborate, she doesn’t have too. Karl knows. “He has suffered as well. Just… if you speak with him, keep that in mind, if you would. For me.”
[Karl Gyllenhammar] The Rotagar nods. It is a little thing she asks. They are both kinfolk. To her, it is a hated word. To the Get of the city, it is something akin to a curse, a burden to be carried by the true. To the Norse Fenrir? It means Family, and there is little more important.
“John Thornton. I will remember his name. For you. For him.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. “And should any female of our Tribe ask? He’s fuckin’ taken. You can make THAT clear too.” Though it’s said with amusement as she slides her hands into the pockets of her slacks.
It would take some kind of man to change her from the Tribal welcome make to a one man girl, hm – and John’s that man.
[Karl Gyllenhammar] The Rotagar chuckles. A deep, amused sound.
“Yes, Montoya-yuf. I will make sure to remember that.”
And Karl starts walking again, still facing away from Izzy. A few more steps, and he turns into an alley, swiftly vanishing into the shadows.
[Izzy Montoya] A brow quirks upwards at the honorific he affords her, and she simply watches him as he walks away. In fact, she watches him until the radio squawks and demands her attention. Even so, it’s another moment before she shakes her head, opens the care door and slips inside. The door slams as she grabs the mic and barks. “Montoya.”
Moments later, the engine starts, and the shitbrown car pulls smoothly into traffic and away.