[Kristiana Coleman] (Um. Okay. Sorry.)
[Izzy Montoya] (….wow. Um. Heh. You bailing too, Damon? *L* and was it something I said? I SWEAR I showered today!)
[Ivan] [*pulls foot out of mouth*]
[Ivan] [no, i just phrased something poorly *dies* mindy asked me to play and we’d decided to come join august because she was looking for RP. but i said: “[huh! i didn’t see kristiana had logged in. mindy and i were gonna come set an open scene up in a club — do you guys mind?]” — which made august leave cuz she didn’t wanna go clubbing, and kristiana left cuz she thought i was kicking her out! anyway. *dragging them back in*]
[Ivan] [anyway. SCRUB THE CLUB THING. we’ll just see where this goes. who wants to start?]
[August] {No, it’s ok – go ahead and do what you two had planned}
[Kristiana Coleman] Christmas day was harder on her than she’d anticipated, and so tonight she’s out wandering the streets to halfheartedly look over complexes in preparation for her move out of the hotel. The California girl is clearly ill prepared for the cold weather and lake effect snow, and she’s shivering in the thin jacket that’s thrown over her light top
[August] {Ok.. who’s typing? We can do the club thing.. someone just needs to tell me what type of club ya’ll were planning?}
to Cordelia, Ivan, Izzy Montoya, Kristiana Coleman
[Izzy Montoya] She looks tired. Exhausted really, though only those who know her best would be able to tell. Many folks regale others with the horrors of working Retail during the Christmas season, but few realize that for the Chicago Police Department, it is a pure hell. Izzy hasn’t slept much, she hasn’t been home much, she can’t remember if she’d changed out of this pair of slacks and rumpled dress shirt under her coat sometime within the past 48 hours, or where home is.
Other than it’s somewhere nearish here, and there is a coffee shop or 10 on the way, which may give her enough fuel to actually make it.
Even better, a bar. She is, after all, carrying a cup of coffee in her hands, fingers wrapped protectively around it, as she walks down the street for all the world like there’s not a thin sheen of ice under her feet that could cause her to slip and fall [and possibly blissfully pass the fuck out.]
She walks – as her officers are too pleased to point out – like a man. Long strides, purposeful and sure, determined, despite the lack of destination. She is the type that one look garners the opinion that she would take exactly zero amounts of shit from anyone, and might shoot someone if they try.
Folks should go with that.
[Cordelia] Cordelia spent a fair chunk of her day trying to make her apartment look lived in, and then trying to make the lived in apartment look like it had been immaculately cleaned by someone who was not Cordelia. It’s inordinately difficult to lie to a Philodox. Breeding or not, she had several things to contend with when it came to fooling Inez. Their history was one thing; Inez knew Cordelia. Backwards, forwards, sidewards, slantwards, and every other whichwards in between. They have history. Twenty-two years worth of history.
Inez knows her tricks.
Inez can, does, and will call bullshit.
No, Cordelia has to play this just right or else all of her cavorting and such will be for naught. While her parents couldn’t be bothered to give two fucks about what she did in the United States (She’s getting it out of her system), Inez more-than-likely did give a shit about what Cordelia did.
So. Out the food went. In came other food. Out went parts of the food, down her garbage disposal to give the illusion that she’d actually eaten it. Cordelia spent the better part of her day dropping triscuits down the drain and listeing to them get eaten alive and whisked away.
This was going to be a long day.
—
December 24th.
—–
“¿A quién vas a salir con esta noche?” Inez asked. She leaned against the wall in the bathroom. Her arms are folded low. There’s a ragabash draped over Cordelia’s sofa in the living room, and a theurge rummaging through the kitchen. Two young, unfamiliar ahrouns pour over a map. They’re a sordid bunch. A Shadow Lord. Two Silver Fangs. A couple Fianna. Cordelia knows which faces are missing, and who has replaced them.
“A friend,” she replies.
“Girlfriend or boyfriend.”
“Just a friend.”
“Sería madre como él?”
“No,” she laughs, “Mamá no tiene que cumplir con todos mis amigos.”
“Mamá no le gustaba tu última novia tampoco.”
Cordelia rolls her eyes and finishes putting her lipgloss on. Inez just laughs.
—-
The blonde stork takes a cab to get to the pre-arranged location for drinks. Post-holiday drinks with Ivan Press. She no doubt guessed that there would be about a billion people out for the holidays, trying to get as shithoused as possible so that they too could deal with their in-laws and visiting family members. All in all, this was the way she was intending on dealing with the pack that was taking up her living room right now. With lots and lots and lots of booze and possibly being distracted by it all. They were here on business- her living room was a war room. Maps and plans and discussion of where to move next-
Because it was never just a visit with them.
It isn’t important, though, because she shows up at the rather trendy, oh-so-nameless, oh-so-packed little bar-that-has-dancing-and-occasionally-someone-gets-topless-and-no-one-cares. Such is the benefit of bars and nightclubs. It’s the holidays.
She shows up in a black shirt and a white top. Something with a high thread count and a higher price tag that does wonders to hide the fact that Cordelia really doesn’t have a lot in the way of cleavage. The skirt’s shortish though. Or maybe it’s the fact that she has long legs. The skirt’s tighter than she remembers it being when she bought it. Silently, she curses American food. She’s acquired other glasses, but realistically these frames seem to scream vintage librarian instead of utter dweeb.. She wonders if she beat Ivan here.
—-
There’s a dead hooker hanging halfway out of the dumpster between the bar and the little-known, less-cared-about establishment beside it. Who knows how long she’s actually been there. Who knows what her name is. The determination, however, is that she’s been there for close to three hours and got noticed by a club-goer/post-Christmas-shopper noticed her. The crowds ebb and flow. Who knows when the cops are going to show up, or maybe that security guard is just going to stand there all night and guard a forgotten body.
Noble deed.
Cold night.
Kindred spirit- no one remembered his name either.
—-
This is where we open our scene- with a posh little place full of people and well bred someones, and a lonely alley filled with No Ones. It’s December 26th.
[Cordelia] (forgive inaccurate timestamps. Guess who doesn’t proofread her posts? Meeee!)
[August] For those with no family, Christmas wasn’t nearly as stressful. No one to cook for – no one to make the house spotless for and no one but a small child to impress; thus, the blessed few days passed without much mention or fuss.
However, the holidays were great for one thing: tips. What better way to save a little cash than to get an extra job? So, by some bit of luck, or fate – the bar which Cordelia and Ivan chose just happened to be the one that the very unlucky Miss Grant was working this evening.
Her blonde hair was neatly curled and pulled back. Her makeup was tasteful but dark enough to be attractive in the dim lighting. Her black shirt with the bars logo was purposefully stretched a little much over her chest and her short black skirt showed off her shapely long legs. She wasn’t the girl at the door – but was busily fluttering from table to table within.
[Kristiana Coleman] She’s only a little underage, but that isn’t what the ID she gleefully presents at the door of the club says. She doesn’t have much cash, but this is a girl who’s used to not having to buy her own drinks.
The jacket is kept on even after she enters the warm building, and she shivers as she pushes her way closer to the bar itself
[Izzy Montoya] Someone apparently didn’t get the memo, because her phone rings. She snatches the phone from her belt, checks the number on the caller ID. And here, we find Izzy expressing her discontent with such a turn of events, with an eloquence others only dream of as she stops walking, takes a drink of her coffee, swallows, and barks:
“Jesus, Mary, mother of FUCK this had better be good, Finn, or I will rip your fucking intestines through your goddamn nose with a pair of motherfucking pliers.”
Merry Christmas, Finn.
She listens, then, and closes her eyes with an exasperated sigh. “What about O’Higgens? Barnes? Fuckin’ Donnally?” She grinds her teeth, audibly, and then huffs a breath through her nose, and looks down the street toward the dumpster in question. Her answer is softer, now, tempered with something dangerously close to understanding. “Yeah. alright. Alfuckinright, I said. I got it. Send the bus, I’m just down the block. Tell Shannon I said hello, and kiss the kids for me.”
John is gone on a long undercover assignment, and away from home. She lives alone, has no kids, no family. She is on Christmas duty – has been for days, and will be for at least one more night, it seems. She takes another long drink of her coffee, and heads down the street toward the dead hooker in the alleyway.
[Ivan] Truth be told, Ivan’s been a little scarce this last month. He hasn’t shown up at nightclubs to buy everyone drinks. He hasn’t thrown lavish, decadent parties at his flat and invited every young, hot, rich — pick at least two — person in the city. Calls and messages have gone largely unreturned, though that’s not in and of itself such an unusual occurrence.
Still: a noticeable lack of Ivan Press at the country clubs and the nightclubs for the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Maybe he was actually, god forbid, spending some time with his family. Christmas Eve, though, and he’s back with a vengeance — party after party after party for the last forty-eight hours, from skyscraper charity casinos to underground raves, ending up…
well, here. Bursting in the door with his entourage of two mean-looking, tattooed, Slavic fellows, one sharp, black-eyed woman in her thirties, and a good many more young, leggy runway models, dancers, starved swans — all giggling and shivering in their miniskirts and close-cut, fashionable, not-at-all-warm jackets. Most of the group appear to be half-, nearly-, or still-drunk. They crowd unapologetically into the bar, the big russians shoving the unwary aside. Ivan, at the nucleus of it all, drops a cigarette — slim, black — on the floor and grinds it out under his heel as he walks in.
“Benno!” He greets the bartender like he knows him. “Make sure my friends here have whatever they want. Kolya, Evgeny, let’s clear out a couple tables here and … this chunk of the bar here.”
He waves his hands seemingly at random. Kolya and Evgeny — aforementioned large tattooed Russians — move forward to start evacuating sections of the bar and the adjacent tables. August is about to collect her tip off a table of drunken frat boys who flirted with her all fucking night when they get forcibly ousted by the bigger of the two. So much for that tip. Kristiana is about to slide onto a barstool when some giggling, wasted backrow dancer from the chicago ballet steals it almost literally from under her and seats herself.
[peek] [Mind if I join?]
to August, Cordelia, Ivan, Izzy Montoya, Kristiana Coleman
[Kristiana Coleman] She yelps as she falls to the floor instead of landing on the chosen stool. Her foot reaches to hook around the leg of the stool, well toned legs giving a hard yank to pull it out from under the slip of a drunken girl.
[August] And god damnit, she flirted back. What a waste of a frickin night. August eyed the large man like she really didn’t appreciate the move, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she just collected the glasses off of the now evacuated table and brought them back to the bar.
When she returned a moment later with a clean bar rag and began to wipe the various dribbles of alcohol and crumbs off of the table, she leaned over it a little more than perhaps was propper {she lost her last tips.. time to earn new ones!}. Lightly hued lips curled into a smile as she glanced back up at the large Slavic man.
A few coasters went down on the table. “What can I get you gentlemen..?”
[Cordelia] There are a lot of people in the bar. Cordelia takes note of the people that she can see most readily- she can admire an athlete from a far. Something about Kristiana makes her think of gymnasts- being small, compact, and blonde. Maybe Cordelia feels some kind of draw to blondes- being that she is one- but she takes her time and stands. She plans on changing her position and, instead, maybe getting a word in with her, until-
Until aforemention gymnast is ousted from what would-have-been her barstool. Wonderful ambition, but poor landing and her ass hits the ground. Cordelia winces and continues on over anyway. No better time than the prsent. She passes the dancer from the Chicago ballet, gives her a once over- and realizes that she’s gained five pounds. Knows exactly where it’s gone and feels a pang of what might be envy. No matter. Cordelia finally gets close enough to Kristiana to offer a hand.
“Don’t feel bad,” she says. Her voice is distinctly cented. Very much not from the United States, but not nordic. More Latin, “girls on the back row in the ballet tend to be lacking in graces. Social, physical, blahblahblah.”
—
As it turns out, Izzy’s initial approach towards said bar was right on the way to the dead hooker. In some way it was dehumanizing to call this, or describe this, as just another scene of the crime. Izz Montoya probably sees dozens of these. The woman works for Chicago PD, of course she’ll see a lot of this. When she makes it there, she sees a strappy heel- one broken, the other not. She sees a security guard standing there- he’s not very tall and he’s round. He looks cold.
“Hey.. uh… so… you’re with Chicago PD… right? You’re here for Chloe?”
[Kristiana Coleman] She lets out an explosion of curses in Russian, directed toward the ousted dancer as she accepts the help back to her feet. She rights the stool, then settles on it with a daring gaze at the ballerina before offering a polite smile to Cordelia.
“Thank you. Let me buy you a drink?”
[Izzy Montoya] She approaches the ally with something akin to determination. The exhaustion in her step is gone, now there is only business – though it can’t be erased from her eyes, the circles below givng lie to the awake and business quality in her voice as she surveys the scene.
“Yeah. Detective Montoya. CPD.” She digs in her pocket and pulls out her badge, shaking out the chain so that she can drape it over her neck, pulling her hair free so that it falls down over her shoulders again. She gives the Security guard a once over, but without the disdain that others might have. “And you are….?”
She won’t forget his name.
“What have we got?” It’s a question among equals, though she outranks him in training and job and experience and age. She needs to know what he knows, though she’s already checking out the scene, callously drinking her coffee at the same time, as if seeing the dead no longer has the ability to turn her stomach.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Some women, they enter a room and people notice.
Katherine was one of those women. It might have been because she walked in and the room feel invisible fingers stifle their ability to breathe a little; tightening like a noose around their necks; perhaps this made her frightening to some, intimidating to others; all the more alluring to yet another. Nobody would accuse her of being a drab creature, the Silver Fang. Were she not what she were to so many; Elder; Philodox; Sister; she would still be a fetching thing in her white coat and gloves; in her heeled boots and with her hair elegantly strung about her face; the rest of it clipped back from her neck.
Honor’s Compass was not here tonight, slipping into the bar as if she were to be entirely ignored; Katherine Bellamonte was. She did not seem to care so very much that others were surrounding her on every side; pushing; beating against her awareness.
Instead; the Half Moon stalks over to the bar and sets her gloves before her; signaling for the barkeeper’s attention.
[Ivan] The two large fellows and the one woman who seems to have more than a half-dozen neurons in her head settle at the table once occupied by frat boys. August comes to take their order and is met by two of stony, blank stares from the men. Either they didn’t speak English, or they pretended not to. It’s the woman — possessed of a sort of angular, dark, solemn beauty — who answers her, “Two bottles of Zyr, ice cold, and three glasses. A bucket of ice on the side. Thank you.”
There’s a sudden uproar at the bar. A scuffle over a barstool: a skinny drunk ballerina falling on her bony ass with a cry, more outraged than genuinely hurt. Evgeny’s head snaps around to see what was the matter. Then he laughs, harsh and barking. “Glupaya shlyuha. Obsluzhivaet yee pravo.”
Kolya, the taller and broader and milder of the two, “Bud&+697;te vezhlivy.”
The voice that addresses Kristiana most directly comes from behind her, though. There’s a lot of Russian flying around amidst the newcomers, but this one speaks perfect English with just a touch of WASPy, upper-east-side accent:
“Well, that wasn’t very nice.”
Ivan leans against the bar behind her. It’s hard to say when or how he got here: he’s a no-moon, after all, accustomed to moving unseen. Silent even when he doesn’t try to be. His eyes are on the rest of the bar, surveying his friends, his entourage. A few of the girls have convinced some of the other patrons to clear out room for them. We wanna dance! Tables are being shoved aside; an impromptu dance floor is opening up.
The Silver Fang’s eyes turn to Kristiana, finally. They are a mutable hazel, green and gold and blue and grey threaded in, and they inspect her for a moment. Then he extends an elegant hand.
“Ivan Kirillevich.” Ee-vahn, he pronounces it. Then his eyes shift past Kristiana; he smiles all at once. “Cordelia. You made it.”
[Katherine Bellamonte] The Silver Fang Elder takes note of the buzz of activity focused on the No Moon’s party; raises an eyebrow and leans her weight on one arm; turning her head in the other direction while she awaits her drink.
[Kristiana Coleman] “I’m not a nice person.”
She answers before turning around, eyes widening at the Fang, breath noticeably catching before she makes the very deliberate effort to look as unimpressed with him as humanly possible. She doesn’t bother offering her name as his gaze quickly goes beyond her, though she does bristle a bit at what she obviously sees as an offense.
[Cordelia] Her eyebrows shoot up, and instead of looking confused at the prospect of not understanding exactly what came out of Kristiana’s mouth, she looks excited. Like someone gave her a fucked up Rubic’s cube or asked her for a famous Shakespearian palendrome. She can’t wipe that expression off her face so easily. It takes some doing.
“I suppose,” she tells her, “only if I get to buy you a drink. I’m Cordelia.”
Short e. Cor-deh-lia, not Cor-dee-lia.
“I have a friend wedged in somewhere with the flock of twigs,” says the pot about the kettles. She turns in time to see that friend emerge. She grins, the right half of her mouth upturns more than the left, “when have I ever turned you down for drinks? Everyone knows Bruce Wayne throws the best parties.”
—
“Uh,” he starts. She’s digging for her badge, and for once he has time to turn around and look at the scene. Izzy is asking him what they have there. He inhales and looks at the trashcan again. He rubs the back of his head, “officer David Wallach- Price Companies and Security… uh… we have… a caucasian female, aged wenty-seven, red hair, brown eyes, been on premise for… for…”
he exhales and looks own again. He focuses on the ground.
“Approximately three hours, anticipated cause of death is blunt force trauma to the head.”
[August] “Sure, no problem.” She grinned, tossed a few napkins down and turned to return to the bar to fill the order. She didn’t much care if they didn’t want to chat.. they didn’t exactly look like the most friendly crowd anyway.
The order was placed and after a hushed word with the bartender, the pretty blonde Coggie shifted her hazel gaze to the girl who ended up upon the floor. She nodded slightly and brushed passed the now thinning crowd to make her way over to Kristiana. “Honey, are you ok?” Her smile was warm and tone obviously indicated that she really did want to know the answer to the question.
As for Cordelia beside her.. August didn’t even recognize the bombshell that stepped out this evening..
And while waiting for an answer, August catches sight of Kate sitting not far off. A hand rose in greeting – she’d make her way over there in a short while to say hello.
[Kristiana Coleman] Bruce…. Look at the woman, Krist. Her attention tears from Ivan with obvious effort, and she musters another quick smile for Cordelia
“Nice to meet you. Kristiana.”
She offers a hand, twisting to do so in a way that keeps her from putting her back to the man on the other side of her
[Bridget Simone] The world can change instantly for a young woman in her early twenties. One minute, you could belong to a family and the next you’re turning tricks. The next she could be dead in an alley. For one unclaimed kinfolk of Stag, the chips were up. For the first time in her entire life, she’s come to realize that while life itself is fragile, Bridget has a powerful source of inner strength to draw upon. Most kinfolk would run away from the scuffle she was tangled in last week. Bridget did not. She did not flinch, did not cower. She grabbed a shotgun and went to work.
Not because she was terrified. Because no one had the right to take from her what was hers. Certainly, Bridget was terrified, but not more so than her exhileration, her righteous anger she felt at having her night interrupted. Things could have gone badly. She could be dead right now,
or in a Hive
But she isn’t. The Black Spiral Dancers who attacked her and her Garou compatriates are dead or captured. No other truth Bridget has encountered in her sheltered life could make her feel more alive or more of a small part of the Nation she will forever be involved with because of her birth.
So what is a young Bon Vivant to do? Bridget cleaned up, polished up. She certainly can when she wants to. The thin young woman stalks like the creature she is, protected by a studded leather jacket she “found” at a bar. It does little to protect her from the cold, but it makes the scant black cocktail dress have the edge she needs to approach the club with a force of confidence and veracity she’s never had before in her life.
Her clothes aren’t fancy, she’s clearly not rich. But Bridget works it well. The crowd doesn’t part for her quite like the Garou, but the slip of a girl moves like a force nonetheless until she gets to where she wants to be.
Which is in the club, at the bar, hopefully with a drink in hand within two minutes.
[Izzy Montoya] [come on, Kahseeno! Gimme what I need… echo echo, who hears an echo?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8 (Failure at target 7)
[Izzy Montoya] [really? Fuck you, Kahseeno!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 5, 8, 10 (Failure at target 8) Re-rolls: 1
[Izzy Montoya] [hahahaha.]
[Izzy Montoya] She has something of a soft spot for newbies, though she’d never EVER let it be known. It shows in little ways though, like the patience with which she listens to his stammering report, the way she doesn’t insist that he look at the body, the way she doesn’t scoff at the fact he’s a security guard rather than a cop. She listens – shockingly enough, she listens well, despite the propensity to run her own mouth – and nods when he’s done.
“Thank you, Officer Wallach. The meat wagon is on the way. Think you can wrangle me up another cup of coffee in the meantime?” She lets him off the hook, gives her permission to leave the scene. Its not what he is trained to deal with. It is, unfortunately, her job. “This one is cold as fuck, and I need the caffeine”
She drains the last swallow and goes to toss it automatically in the trash – and stops at the last minute. She is that tired. She digs for her notebook then, and writes down what she’d been told in indescripable shorthand, and goes to work.
Which for her, involves listening. Closely.
And gets, exactly, nothing. Nothing but static. She is far too exhausted to run lead on this – but she’s all they got. She scrubs her face with her hand, and works the scene the old fashioned way, as she waits for the others – and her coffee.
[Cordelia] Izzy Montoya doesn’t hear anything for once. No evidence but beating hears and scuttling rats.
[Ivan] “Doubtlessly,” Ivan parries, effortless, before turning his attentions to the girl once termed duckling by a fellow Silver Fang. He regards her a moment too, considers both her unusually undorkish appearance and her, well, offer to Kristiana. Then he smirks.
“You look uncommonly good,” Ivan says. “I see you’ve finally converted to contacts. We need a secret language, you know. Let’s learn … Hungarian. Then we can plot to engage this lovely not-so-nice girl in a ménage à trois without her having the slightest suspicion of our nefarious plans.”
At the end, Ivan turns away: Benno, or whatever the bartender’s name is, has slid up his drink. He picks it up, tosses it down, and then turns back to quirk a laconic eyebrow at Kristiana.
“Of course, now that you’re in the know — interested?”
[Cordelia] David Wallach nods, and his first few steps are backwards facing. He looks at the body, and he turns to head down the street to get the cop her cup of coffee this Scene was going ot be an interesting one to work. Or, conversley, it would be like any other body dump or angry john. Too damned many of these. Time marches on.
Eventually, the security officer returns with her coffee a few minutes before the meat wagon actually gets there.
“What happens from here?” he asks.
[Kristiana Coleman] (Sorry!) She smiles at the waitress, managing to mostly hide the jealousy she feels at the woman’s perfect form in tight clothes.
“I’m fine, thanks. I appreciate it.”
[Kristiana Coleman] The poor, sheltered Kin gapes at Ivan for a full thirty seconds before she manages to gather her composure again. Desperately scrambling to hide the fact that she’s shocked, she nods as casually as she can manage and decides to call his bluff before reason can kick in.
“Sure. I have a hotel room”
[August] The blonde server/kin nodded to Kristiana.. “Ok darlin.. but if you decide you want an ice pack, you let me know, ok?” And with a reassuring pat on her arm she dodged past the patrons towards the bar.
Everynow and then she could be caught doin’ a little dance to the beat of the music – the girl seemed happy enough and seemed to like her job.. even if the assholes who didn’t speak English stole her tips..
Speaking of.. she gathered their bottles, glassses and bucket of ice and returned to the table. Neatly she set them down, smiled.. and simply snuck back out of the way before they could ask for anything else.
“Katherine?” August smiled as she stepped up behind the stunning Silver Fang.
[Izzy Montoya] While he was gone, Izzy has gone about her business, canvassing the scene, marking what little evidence has been found, what small things will give them a clue as to who did what to the girl. It’s one of hundreds she has worked before – and she will simply come back tomorrow to see if she can confirm any of it through other, more usual means. When she’s rested.
He returns, and she takes the cup of coffee with a little sound of appreciation, taking a swig of it before it even has the chance to cool. It burns her tongue, but she doesn’t care. “Well, you’re gonna give me your phone number, so that I can call you later.”
From anyone else, it would be a blatant come on. From Izzy, it’s just her job. For now. “In case we have further questions. When the meat wagon arrives, they’ll process the body, and the other officers, who will arrive with them, will finish processing the scene. I’ll gather up everything found tomorrow, and then we’ll see if we can find out who did this.”
She doesn’t say that it’s likely a lost cause, that it won’t happen. Very few people care about dead hookers. She also doesn’t say that she’ll work it with just as much intensity that she would the highest profile killing either. But she will, because that is who she is.
[Cordelia] You look uncommonly good, he tells her.
“I’ve gotten fat,” she informs him, “and we do need to learn Hungarian. Or Estonian. I’ve heard Estonian is a quick learn. At any rate, it sounds like a fabulous idea but- shit, Ivan, we should have come up with this plan to learn a secret language before roping adorable blondes into compromising positions.”
A beat.
“Not that it matters, because she agreed, so really,” she says. And shrugs. Either she was serious, kidding around, or was all about calling a called bluff, “and she’s providing the hotel room. Everyone wins in this situation. Es verdad.”
She nods.
[Kristiana Coleman] Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. She breaths in and out slowly, keeping the mostly serene smile fixed firmly on her face, and sneaking looks at Ivan as her attention is repeatedly pulled to him.
[Katherine Bellamonte] “Mm,” the Silver Fang was mid-way through sipping a cocktail; the glass poised at her lips as she turns to half-face the Gaian Kinswoman; the pale blue eyes seemed borderline approachable, but for the hint of danger that swam about with Katherine’s designer perfume like a shark amongst the reef fish.
“Good evening, Ms Grant,” she tilted her head; “how are you faring amongst all the animals in the room?” There’s the barest flick of her lip upward.
[Cordelia] “Do you have to call it the meat wagon,” he asks. He doesn’t look like he is going to get sick any time soon. His hands go to his pockets and he observes the outside of the trashcan. he looks at the ground. he looks at the walls. He doesn’t touch anything. He doesn’t venture inside. He rattles off his phone number, an address, some places people can reach him in case he needs to be reached.
“Be good to her,” he says to Izzy, “Chloe’s a nice girl, she is.”
Is, not was.
“You… you got a good clearance rate, right?”
[August] Ah, but the known danger was more comfortable than the known threat that the others posed. She’d felt the slight hint of rage eminating off of Ivan – but didn’t know who, nor what he was, so she’d gone out of her way to avoid him by passing on the opposite side of a table twice now.
“Good evening to you as well. Oh..” Hazel eyes flicked back towards the others. “Quite well, actually. Holiday business is good. How are you? Is your drink good?”
[Kristiana Coleman] She orders drinks to distract herself. Three more of whatever Ivan was drinking, one for each of them.
[August] (unknown* threat.. gah)
[Ivan] “Okay,” Ivan says, and sets his emptied shotglass down with a decisive click. The new drink gets the same treatment: lift, gulp, down. “Let’s go.”
He hasn’t even sat down yet, nor made an attempt to. Straightening from the bar, he catches the eye of the woman and two increasingly drunk men at the table — tilts his head at the door, taps his wristwatch, then flashes three fingers. Be back at 3am. Something like that, anyway.
As for the rest of his twig-girls, his starved swans, whatever you might want to call them: four or five of them were dancing up on each other, mostly for the benefit of drunken onlookers. Two of them were sitting on Evgeny’s lap, cooing over his tattoos. Ivan scarcely looks at them as he escorts Cordelia and Kristiana out of the crowded little bar, his hands warm at their backs.
“Now, we have a bit of predicament,” he says as the door shuts behind them. “My car only has two seats. Do you think the two of you could stand sharing a seat for a few blocks?”
There are a good number of vehicles crowding the street in front of the bar: two Escalades, a Bentley, and a goddamn Bugatti Veyron. It’s towards this last, of course, that Ivan makes a beeline, utterly ignoring the traffic cop glaring daggers while he writes tickets for doubleparking.
[Izzy Montoya] It finally clicks home that he knew the girl. She closes her eyes, briefly, and scrubs her hand across her face, as if doing so would wake her up more. She will sleep for a week, when the season is over. “My apologies, Officer Wallach. I’ve been going non-stop for about a week now, but that’s no excuse. Do you know Chloe’s last name?” Or her real one… “anything you can tell me about her would help.”
She writes down his phone number, address, and the wealth of contact points she is given. Only then does she look up and meet his gaze, again. “Good doesn’t even begin to describe it, Wallach. I’m the best goddamn homicide detective on the force, with the record to prove it. I’ll find out what happened to your girl, here, or die trying.”
and there’s not a thing in that statement that is not the truth.
[Kristiana Coleman] She barely has time to gulp down the shot before she’s escorted from the bar, coughing as the alcohol burns her throat. His warm hand on her back feels good through the thin jacket as the icy air surrounds her, and she unconsciously presses back into it.
[Bridget Simone] The bar is decidedly not her scene: the stick people are shallow, mean-looking bitches. They scrutinize her sky-high (but last season/not designer) shoes, but mostly that feral, hungry look that made her get along better with some of the Garou.
And speaking of depth, some tital fish plays at being a royal bitch and bumps into the Stag kin, who looks at once out of place and exactly where she should be. Her blood rings like a Celtic warcry, and it speaks in ways both subtle and obvious. The Stag kin whips around, tosses her chestnut mane, and glares at the tresspasser of her personal space.
“Va-t’en,” she replies in a flat, dismissive tone. (Go away.)
She collects a tall drink, Three Wisemen Go Hunting. Not for the faint of heart, and apparently full of whiskey. Bridget notices a tall blonde swan she is familiar with and her eyes go alight as she makes her way over.
“Cordelia!” she cries. “I keep running into you.”
[Cordelia] “Señor Kirillevich,” which is odd to say, because she switches between Spanish an a close approximation of the way he’d pronounced a last name she’s never heard before, “I hate to be one to say this… but… I think you would have better luck with said ménage à trois with you, Ms. Kristiana, and your tattooed friend than you would with the three of us.”
Nicest way she could think of to put it. Doesn’t stop her from getting in the car, though. Doesn’t stop her from getting in anyway. Might as well get some air while they’re at it.
“Lo siento.”
[Cordelia] (ack! addendum!)
[Cordelia] She does linger for a minute, in time to call back to Bridget and she waves. The blonde, right before her sorries and her explanation of the whole predicament, calls back.
“Bridget!” it’s followed by a wave, “I get around! I think the word is… ubiquitous!”
[Cordelia] For Izzy
“Daniels,” he says, “Claire Daniels. She had a friend named Jones that she hung out with. And some crackhead that I never thought was much good. Royo or some shit, I don’t know… never really liked her friends.”
A beat passed.
“That’s about all I know about her. She doesn’t normally work this side of town, though, she was usually on the south side down by J and C liquor.”
[Kristiana Coleman] She relaxes marginally when Cordelia shoots down the threesome, but just as quickly starts to worry that she may still not be out in the clear. Still, the car is warm and she has her pepper spray in her bag… She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly, and takes a breath. “Chloe or Claire? Chloe her street name then?” She takes down the information. “Southside, J and C. Got it.”
She waits a moment, and then reaches out to touch his arm, just above the elbow. “I find him. Why don’t you go and get warm. I got it from here.”
Sirens, in the distance, say the same.
to Cordelia
[Katherine Bellamonte] “It was lovely, I-” There’s a discreet chirping vibration from the noble Fang’s pocket and she lowers her gaze to it; casting August what must pass for reluctance from Katherine. “I must take this; excuse me, oui?”
She slips from the stool and out into the night air in a drift of Chanel and Rage almost as if she’d never been present to begin with.
[Sorry guys, I can handle double duty tonight with scenes! Enjoy, though!]
[August] “Yeah.. sure, take care.” She smiled.. and simply went about her business. Afterall, she had a job and saying hello to people who might pass as friends, or at least aquaintances.. wasn’t really part of it.
[Cordelia] “Yeah,” he says. He nods, “Chloe’s a street name. She.. She’s free agent. I don’t think I ever saw her with a pimp or anything.”
He looks at Izzy again, and he keeps eye contact, he doesn’t look as nervous anymore, “just make sure people are good to her, okay? Lotta folks ain’t nice to the girls out here, obviously, and… do you want me to stick around?”
to Izzy Montoya
[Ivan] Ivan has the passenger-side door of his Veyron open. Two and a half million dollars’ worth of horsepower crouched low on the asphalt, and the keys hooked around the little finger of one lean, golden playboy of a Fang. He pauses as Cordelia abruptly folds, so to speak, one dark eyebrow quirking up.
He doesn’t bother to correct her usage of his patronymic. He gives her a moment’s quiet regard instead, eyes unfathomable. Then, “Coward.”
It’s spoken so blandly it’s hard to say if it’s meant as insult or joke or — simply a statement. He glances at Bridget as she chases Cordelia to the sidewalk, then turns his attention back to Kristiana. “What about you? Second thoughts?”
[Bridget Simone] The brunette reaches for the sole person she knows at this place, pushing through the crowd like a pro, ducking between patrons without spilling her drink. It’s clear by the color in her cheeks that either this isn’t her first drink, or the cold made her flush. The French Canadian looks between the tall swan, Kristiana, and Ivan– the last of which is a tall drink of water to be sure.
She blinks a few times, but she doesn’t seem toppled over by his rugged good looks. Some might wonder if she swings the other way; except some people around the caern know better. She’s been hanging around with one of the Shadowlords quite a bit in the last few months… to a fault. People have started to notice, especially the new tribesmen who wandered into Chicago from some corner of the world.
So maybe she’s just trying to save face by not getting into that sort of trouble with guys who are not part of her tribe. As for Ivan, his rage is far more subtle so she may not recognize him even as a Garou immediately.
Bridget links her arm with the blonde Silver Fang kin who is the only other kinfolk she’s spent any significant amount of time with. She needs this: to be around other kinfolk, to not be plagued by the constant reminder of Rage and duty, to forget for a little while that regardless of how well she fought that day last week, she will always be less– Far Less– than the least of the Garou.
[Izzy Montoya] “They’ll be good. In fact, the ME is a friend of mine, too. We’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
He asks if she wants him to stick around, and part of her is ready to say yes, though the honest truth is she’ll get more done once he’s gone, and the others arrive to do their job. It’s a messy business, but they are efficient at it, all the same.
“Nah. Go get warm. It’s a hell of a night to be stuck out here. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
to Cordelia
[Kristiana Coleman] Second. Third. Twenty eighth. But good Gaia is he rich… She amps up the smile, tossing her blond hair just so.
“Why not? What kind of car is this?”
[August] And with.. seemingly most of the others now standing out on the sidewalk, August returned her attention to the Slavic men who ‘didn’t speak English’ and the scary looking female. She was polite, friendly and seemed to want to make sure they were happy with their drinks. She’d make sure they had whatever they wanted (especially if she caught sight of the spendy car outside..)..
“You guys doing alright?”
[Cordelia] She looks at him for a good chunk of time… we say this, but right now thirty seconds seems like an eternity. Her eyes narrow slightly. It’s notable at the corners, harder to see now that she isn’t really wearing her glasses.
“Oh and he knows how to push my buttons,” she says, “fine. If there’s room, fine, if not? That’s fine too.”
[Cordelia] WAllach nods, and with that the man walks away from the scene to go ahead and head home.
to Izzy Montoya
[Ivan] “It’s a Bugatti Veyron, kotyonok,” Ivan replies, offering her a hand as she slips into the ultra-lowslung passenger’s seat, “and it’s very, very fast.”
It’s a world of dark leather inside. Even someone who knows absolutely nothing of cars can sense the money involved. Every texture, every surface looks luxurious, expensive, well-made. The car seats only two, but it’s wide and low and heavy, the bulk of its size and weight made up of a massive engine, a drivetrain that can endure the stresses of two, two hundred fifty miles an hour of speed.
Cordelia changes her mind after all. Ivan’s eyebrow flicks up again; he scoffs. “Come on, then.” He nods at her friend, “Is she coming too, or are we ditching her?”
While Cordelia makes up her mind, presumably, he removes a slim cigarette case from the breast pocket of his wine-colored shirt. He’s a little underdressed for the weather — a modern-cut silk suit, no tie, no outer coat — but he hardly expects to stand around long. He lights up a Sobranie and then circles around to the driver’s side to get in.
Inside the Veyron, the doors and windows shut all extraneous sound out. He offers his cigarettes to Kristiana mutely. He doesn’t fit the car, but he complements it: tall and lean, goldenskinned, with hair like ripened grain and its shadows — dappled gold and dark. A lean, aristocratic face. A russian brow, and intense eyes. Whether Kristiana takes a cigarette or not, he starts up the engine, then thumbs down the passenger window.
“Last call,” he drawls. “If you’re coming, come along.”
[Kristiana Coleman] Kristiana knows a great deal about expensive things, and can spot them at fifty yards. She settles into the seat as if it was made just for her, eyes taking in every detail of the interior as he continues a conversation that she’s paying very little attention to now. Look at him. He can’t possibly be a killer. She has absolutely zero chance of ending up in a barrel or in pieces on the side of the road if she goes on one little ride with him. Besides, he’s gorgeous. Refined. Rich… She takes the cigarette with another smile, this one easier as the shot makes it’s way through her bloodstream.
[Cordelia] “Bridget- crazy sexual escapades with Ivan Press and a couple of random blondes. In or out?”
[Izzy Montoya] Wallach walks away, as Izzy looks over her notes. When the mea… hearse arrives, and the examiners go about the business of dealing with the dead, she does as promised. “Hey – easy there. She’s someone’s daughter, someone’s friend. think of that before you manhandle her like a sack of bones, will ya?”
She glares down the looks of shock on their faces, until they do as she asks, without asking questions of their own. She out ranks them, and she looks like she might just pass out on her feet right there where she stands. It’s sheer determination that gets her through these last bits of canvasing the scene.
That, and the promise of a stiff drink inside.
“Hey Jones – you work southside, right? She look familiar?”
There is comfort in repetition, in work, in getting through another scene. This is her second home, where she feels most herself, most in control, and under her leadership, the girl is quickly taken care of – respectfully – and on her way to the morgue.