[Izzy Montoya] Sunday, 3:00 pm.
She’s already been called in to work, to deal with something that apparently no one but her could handle. In payment, Finn, in his wisdom, has taken her to a coffee shop that isn’t quite as trashy as the rest, and plied her with coffee – hot and black, without anything frou frou, an order which still astonishes the coffee baristas no matter what shop it’s in – and the promise of a bottle of whiskey later.
She would have done it without the promises, and they both know it, but that’s beside the point. Appearances must be kept, and it is all the fawning that she will allow to the boys who try so hard to protect her since The Incident Last Year.
So it is, Finn has returned to work, and she is sitting next to a window in a coffee shop, a folder on the table before her, and coffee in her hand. The black eye is healing nicely, the vivid bruising fading to light greens and yellows, the cut on her cheek closed and nearly gone. Her hair is down about her shoulders, and her jacket hangs on the back of her chair. Business casual is her standard style of dress, and now is no different – sensible shoes, dark slacks, and a light tailored shirt that fits her slight curves nicely. Not overly expensive, but not cheaply made either.
She’s every bit the Decorated Detective in looks and deed, working hard to keep Chicago safe…er.
[Hunter Matthews] Last night he could barely stand. Last night he could barely see. Last night he walked his bike straight into what was obviously a non-uniform cop car and then proceeded to basically break every rule of the Don’t Get Arrested This Summer hand book.
But if you looked at him now you wouldn’t be able to tell. The gash on his head from where he fell over in the alley is completely gone–like not even there at all–his eyes and hair are bright and he smells clean. His bike doesn’t zig zag all over the place as it pulls into a parking space on the side of the road, it rolls smoothly to a stop and the engine cuts off shortly after.
He wears a leather jacket today, his usual charcoal colour jeans and work boots. There is no helmet to be seen, and in truth no overly warm clothing. He has the jacket and it’s zipped up but where are his gloves? Where is his scarf and his overcoat?
Breath comes through in frosted clouds as he begins to walk down the street, his cheeks pink in the frost. As he’s walking he looks around, and it’s almost like slow motion when he walks past the coffee shop window. His head turns and he just stares at her–the cop from the previous night–with a smile on his face, blooming out of realisation about who it is he’s looking at.
And then he stops.
Oh god Hunter, just go away. Stop annoying the poor detective.
But he doesn’t.
And he won’t.
She can tell the second he steps into the coffee shop that something is different. People turn away, lower their eyes, even leave the store entirely when he enters. His Rage is like a permeable wall of heat and although his smile is human, his eyes are human and his voice even human: he doesn’t move like one. He doesn’t feel like one.
He has the litheness of a natural born killer stabbed with needles and shocked all the way up, beyond what is humanly possible. Although human he looks and human was he once, it is impossible for even the most intuitively deficient of individuals to mistake him as one of them. Not many know why they feel like that though, or what he is.
So they just turn away, look at their plates, their watches or their cellphones. They scratch the backs of their head and their faces, sip vigorously on their drinks and almost burn themselves. And Hunter just walks right through them all towards Izzy.
“Hey.” He says, and the cheerful grin just makes the whole package seem all the more surreal.
[Izzy Montoya] She knew last night – though not for sure about Hunter himself. She knew when she heart the sounds of shifting, she knew when she saw Simon, she knew. She, unlike those in this fine establishment, does not turn away, or pretend to be busy, or do her best to avoid eye contact with the monster that just walked into the room. No, for her, there is a slight shift of her weight as she settles more solidly into her chair, a tension that winds up around her spine, and a certain [defiant] set to her shoulders.
They make themselves busy, and Izzy, by contrast, watches the monster in human flesh, her dark eyes unreadable, her expression of neither surprise or annoyance, but leaning a touch toward resigned. She flips the file folder on the table in front of her closed, and slides it to the side.
Hey, he says, and her greeting is even, and controlled. “Mr. Matthews.” a beat. “Feeling better, are we?”
[Hunter Matthews] And here comes the cold realisation for Izzy, that he chose to be as drunk as he was last night. He could have shifted and burnt off the drunkenness in seconds but he didn’t. He stumbled along and had a merry old time.
That grin doesn’t fade and he slides a chair out opposite her, drops himself into it and places both his hands palm down on the table in front of him.
“Feelin’ good yeah.” Though it’s not because he’s sober, more so because he has his Rage back. He feels at ease.
“Sorry bout’ last night’n’all. Boys will be boys.” And if he didn’t realise what she is at the time, he certainly realises now.
“I knew o’course.” He says, as if she can read his thoughts. “Was somewhere in’tha back of ma’ mind. But shouldn’t be treatin’ you peeps like that’ fo’sho.”
[Izzy Montoya] She, as one who enjoys far too much liquor to judge, would say nothing of one who chooses to enjoy a good drunk… as long as they are being safe. He was not. At least not when he first arrived nearby, driving his bike into what sounded like a dumpster.
Boys will be boys, he says, and she replies “You are lucky you didn’t kill anyone, unintentionally. If you must be ‘a boy’, then do so responsibly. The Nation considers you an adult. I expect you to act it. Take a cab. Walk. Do anything but drink and drive or I will throw you in the drunk tank. And no, I won’t join you inside.”
Her jaw tightens, and then, her lips curl slightly at the edges, in a slight smirk that may one day grow up to be a full smile. Not today though. She does, however, stop lecturing like a cop – even if that is what she is.
“Sorry. I scraped one of ours out of a dumpster last week. I’m a little on edge.” a beat. “Order what you like. They’ll put it on my tab.”
[Hunter Matthews] He raises an eyebrow, a lecture from a Kinfolk isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he stepped into the coffee shop. He’s not entirely sure what he had in mind, but it wasn’t that. Another Garou might feel his shackles raising, might snarl and put her in her place.
“I wasn’t goin’ too fast, wouldn’t’a risked any normal peeps.”
But she is right to some extent. So he doesn’t argue any more about it.
“One’a yours or one’a mine?”
[Izzy Montoya] She’s been ‘put in her place’ more than once, as he can surely imagine. She doesn’t pull punches, and many a True has found that too hard to handle. She, however, has never changed who she is, who she intends to be. Older, wiser, but still a smartass who turns mouthy more often than mousy.
She doesn’t argue the thought process of speed vs. injury, which she certainly could. She simply drops it. For now. She lifts her cup of coffee to her lips, takes a swig without caring how hot it is, and makes a face as she swallows it down.
As for who the dead girl belongs too… “Rat’s kin.”
[Hunter Matthews] His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. Cheeks get sucked in and he just stares at her for a good few seconds with unblinking emerald eyes.
Then he orders a mocha.
“How’d she go?”
[Izzy Montoya] “Ah.” she says. “One of yours, then.” He’s yet to give a full introduction, but she isn’t one of the most decorated Detectives in the city because she misses fine details like that. He is Bone Gnawer, then, and the girl was one of hers.
“I will also report it to the Jarl, as soon as I’ve all the information I can.” As is proper – which Izzy, shockingly enough, couldn’t give two shits about. She does, however, do her duty as she always has.
“I’m still investigating, but she was killed and dumped into a dumpster by a club on the 26th. The security guard that discovered the body said she worked the corner southside by a liquor store, and said she was a good girl, despite how she made her money. She was on the trail of something worse, though – and was killed because she knew too much.”
Izzy doesn’t tell him how she came about that information. Very few people know of her particular talents. She simply lets it seem as if it came of normal investigations. “One of the johns got scared, gave me this.” points to her healing eye. “They’re all running scared. There’s some sort of knock off makeup and shoes being sold at some boutique that they’re all wagging their tongues about. Claire – that’s the kins name – said it was bad, real bad. I’m in process of tracking down one of her friends, and trying to get more from him.”
A beat as she sits back and meets the kids gaze, evenly. “That’s what I have so far. I’ll let you know if I get more. It’s sounds like it’s something that will need handled by the Nation. I’m keeping it as low key on the Department’s side as I can. They think it’s just another dead hooker. I’ll keep them thinking that.”
She is, after all, very, very good at her job.
[Hunter Matthews] He listens, giving her his full attention which only diverts when she has to pause because his coffee has been brought over. He doesn’t stir it, or put sugar in it. Just picks it up and slurps at it while he listens to her story. There is a lot of information there, but Hunter is from the streets, he knows how to put two and two together to make five.
“Ma’ Pack holds Bronze, we just got back into town. Ma’ Beta’s one’a yours. Joey Oliver, you know’er? We will gladly help out with this, kinda shit just ain’t allowed in my part’a town.”
And when he says gladly, he means it. There’s a twinkle in his eye.
[Izzy Montoya] One of hers. Her mouth tightens, a bit, there’s a slight clench of the muscle at her jaw, but it smooths away almost as fast as it arrives. She has been doing this far too long to let something like that linger very long at all. Izzy, you see, is not very fond of many that folks would call ‘hers’ and for very good reasons.
“I will let the Jarl know of your intentions when I speak with her.”
She has enough grace to not point out this kinda shit happens everywhere, including his part of town, far more often than anyone likes. He knows, she knows, and they both know the other knows.
“Do you have a number I can give her so that she can get in touch with you?”
[Hunter Matthews] “Ye” He says, and his hand unzips his leather jacket, pulls out a cellphone which he slides across the table. He doesn’t tell her his number, but it’s in there under MY PHONE NUMBER.
He wraps a single hand around his coffee and continues to lift it to his lips as they exchange info. He knows, she knows, and he knows she knows he knows.
@_@
“If ya’ don’t mind ma’ askin. What business is it of tha’ Jarls?”
[Izzy Montoya] He hands her his cell phone, and she arches a brow, but pulls her own out. She flips through his numbers, finds it under ‘my phone number’ and adds it to her own list of contacts. She slides his back across the table, her’s goes back into her pocket, and she wraps her fingers around her cup and takes another swig of the bitter coffee.
What business is it of the Jarls?
“It is my duty to inform her of such things that would involve the Nation.” recited by rote, if not by conviction. Izzy is a reluctant warrior at best.
[Hunter Matthews] He nods his head, a smile curving into his lips. Politics isn’t one of his fortes, but he has come to understand procedure..
At least a little bit.
“Well, guess ya’ best do that then. Though you might also wanna tell’er that I won’t be waitin’ ta hear from’er. Incase she be thinkin’ of takin’ her time’n’all.”
[Izzy Montoya] Her gaze narrows slightly, but then she relaxes into that same bemused smirk. “I’ll be sure to pass the message along. She’ll likely be sure to tell you what she thinks of it.”
She doesn’t make a comment on what she’d best do, from anyone’s stand point, either. Sometimes she can still her tongue. Most times, it runs right off and says exactly what she’s thinking. “I will let you know if I find out anything else. I’ll be doing a bit more digging.”
[Hunter Matthews] “That’d be great.” He says, and he means it. There’s even a smile for her. Shit was bad when his pack first took over bronzeville, Fomori factories, people getting kicked out of their homes for no other reason than the Wyrm needs them.
It doesn’t sound like it’s doing much better.
A few more gulps and his coffee is gone, he pushes his chair back, grabs up his phone and stands.
“Well uh.. I didn’t catch’ya name last night?”
[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow up at him. “I didn’t give it.”
It may seem as if she’s still not going to give it, as well, but she relents. “Detective Izzy Montoya. CPD Homicide.”
[Hunter Matthews] His smile broadens and when he speaks now, his voice is slightly lower, just for her.
“Hunter, Burnout, Matthews. Cliath Bone Gnawer Ahroun, Alpha o’the Vanguard.”
A pause.
“Good chattin’ wit’ya Detective Montoya, call on down tha’ line sometime.”
And he starts heading off.
[Izzy Montoya] “Pleasure.”
She almost sounds like she might, someday, mean that. But probably not. At least he called her by her name. Good impressions sometimes begin with the tiniest kernel of given respect.
[Hunter Matthews] [ee! Good scene!]
[Izzy Montoya] [Danke. :) She hasn’t shot anyone in DAYS. the next person…. heheheh]
[Hunter Matthews] [*scuttles away* DONT SHOOT MY CHARRSS!]
[Izzy Montoya] hahahahaha]