[Izzy Montoya] It’s Friday night, and the clubs are jumping and the blood is pumpin, and the music’s thumpin, and Izzy…
Well, Izzy is not doing anything that would make her considered part of ‘the scene’ whatever scene that might be. No, Izzy’s stepping out of her car – unmarked police variety that does nothing to hide the fact that it’s really an unmarked car – and into the frigid night air. She pauses only to lock the car behind her, before long strides carry her to Roys – a dive bar that gives other dive bars a good name. It’s seedy, it’s disgusting, it’s just what the tired detective ordered. It’s the type of place where they don’t care who you are or what you are – they only care if you have cash in your pocket, and that you pay for what you break when you brawl with your buddies.
Or so she’s heard.
She is not what one would call pretty. She is, perhaps, more ‘strong-featured’ than beautiful, though for those in the know, she attracts far more than her fair share of attention due to the purity of her blood, the way she fairly thrums with stories and songs of ancient heroes. Too bad she doesn’t give a rats ass about her blood – save that it stays in the inside of her skin.
So. To Roys, and the inevitable whiskey within…
[Owen DeTerizzi] *These were not Owen’s usual stomping grounds. One of the roughnecks that delivered to the greenhouse had more balls than brains, and had invited the new employee out for a drink. So it was that the glasswalker found himself squished into a corner booth in some place called “Roy’s”, his only comfort the play of his tribal totem underfoot. A glass of tapped beer warm under his fingertips, Owen has proven quite the killjoy to his burly companion, who has since abandoned him to chat up a “Blonde with tits like milk jugs.”
Head down, dark hair is teased away from his scalp as the glasswalker broods. Taking a final glance around before deciding whether to leave or not. The frost and fury of Izzy’s blood enough to stop him in his tracks. Final glance no longer so final as the theurge watches the woman from his booth, strange green eyes intense, questions unspoken.*
[Izzy Montoya] She pauses as the door closes behind her – unknowingly giving Owen the time to look and stare and intensely decide on questions that he doesn’t speak of just yet – to unbutton her leather coat. It’s supple and soft, well worn, fitting her nicely, while also hiding the holster at the small of her back. Of course, anyone could take a single look at her and know she’s armed. She just has that… vibe. She does very little to hide what she is: A cop, first and foremost.
She slides her fingers through dark hair, pushing it back from her face with a semi-irritated flick of her hand. Then, she steps deeper into Roy’s, on a straight line from door to bar. There’s whiskey back there with her name on it. It’s time to get acquainted.
[Owen DeTerizzi] *Where was her warder? A glance around the room shows no looming Fenrir bruiser. No blonde biker with a battle axe and a permanent sneer. Owen’s lips draw into a thin line. He’s approaching directly, little subtly in the glasswalker as Izzy B-lines for the bar, and Owen B-lines for Izzy. His hand resting on the dented bartop as the detective takes a seat. Rasp of him clearing his throat meant to draw her attention.*
… Hello. Officer?
[Izzy Montoya] She raps her knuckles on the bar, and lifts her chin toward the bartender. She’s here enough that he just nods, and goes about getting her drink. She settles to the barstool, adjusting her coat to fall behind her as Owen’s hands hit the bar lightly, and he clears his throat.
Her spine stiffens, a coil of iron born of close association with rage – knowing that prickle of unease for what it is, instantly. It is not so bad as some, though not so little so as to go unnoticed either.
Officer, he says.
“Detective.” She corrects, as she looks up to meet his gaze dead on steady. She doesn’t say anything else -merely arches a brow, questioningly.
[Owen DeTerizzi] *Owen’s lean frame stands just under 6 feet in casual wear, his shoulder length brown hair is loose, a shade lighter than his carefully groomed facial hair. Here was a man that had subdued intensity in his expressions. Patient, but expectant, and not all there. Something not quite right about him, calm seemingly only that before a storm. She meets his gaze dead on, and the kinfolk of Fenrir would be rewarded with a novel reaction. Owen catches her stare long enough to note his reflection there, before averting his eyes with a rumble of warning from deep within his chest.*
Don’t do that. Detective.
*A moment passes in silence, before his eyes raise to her face once more. The grunt the GW came in with starts yelling drunkenly and making an obscene sexual gesture with his fingers. “WAY TO GO OWEN! Get it DONE!” The glasswalker doesn’t look away from Izzy, but green eyes do go flat *
[Izzy Montoya] His chest rumbles a warning, and she simply watches him. She doesn’t look down, or away. It is not in her to do so. “If you want to avoid my gaze,” she says in a deceptively conversational tone, “go for it. I will not act the demure whore to man nor beast.”
Simple enough. To her anyway.
His croonie makes a gesture that she sees out of the corner of her eye, and she doesn’t bother to turn in that direction – she simply lifts her hand and… flips him off. Her point made, she only turns away when the whiskey is set down on the bar in front of her. She reaches for it, lifts, and takes a healthy swallow or four.
[Owen DeTerizzi] [oh yeah. how are we tonight?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Owen DeTerizzi] *Three years ago he was kin. Happily pursuing a life of plants and solitude. Now – this. He couldn’t look a woman in the eye without them shying away or accusing him of misogyny. The line of Owen’s jaw tightens beneath his beard. A deep breath through his nose as he watches Izzy chug whiskey like water.*
Nor will I ask you to, kin-woman. It is not for that reason I would have us not match gazes.
*He doesn’t elaborate, instead, he does what a man is apparently supposed to do for a woman at a bar. He orders her another drink.*
Whiskey alright?
[Izzy Montoya] the tension ratchets another notch higher when he calls her kin-woman. If she had hackles, they’d raise. Her shoulders stiffen, and her hand tightens around the glass. The muscle at the corner of her jaw tenses. He’s hit a nerve, triggered a response that does no one any good.
“My name is Detective Montoya.” Not so subtle the implication that he use it.
He asks after the whiskey, and she takes a deliberate breath. He orders her another, and she watches him via the mirror behind the bar. “Fine.” Then, the real question – for elaboration. “Why.”
[Owen DeTerizzi] So be it, Detective Montoya.
*Owen’s growing frustration is evident on his features. Easily read as he glances to the bartender then looks sharply away from the man and the mirror behind him. Studying instead Izzy’s features. Strangely disconnected as he guides a glass in front of the kin.*
Lets start over. I’m Owen. I was wondering if you’d like to have a drink with me, while I humor my caveman co-worker, and keep up appearances as a normal Joe. I’m not rabid, I’m not fenrir, and I’m not looking. You are – ?
[Izzy Montoya] She watches him. Reads him. Sees the emotions, the frustration flicker across his features. She is damn good at her job -and her job is to read people. Where it gets her into trouble is when it comes to Garou, and the fact she doesn’t give two shits what they think she should do or be.
“Detective Montoya.” she says, first. Then, after a beat, there’s the slightest flicker of a smirk that might someday grow up to become a smile if she ever let it live long enough as she gives, just a touch. “Izzy. Fenrir. Possibly rabid. Why aren’t you looking? My tits not good enough for you?”
Oh, the mouth on her…
[Owen DeTerizzi] Your -no I – hmm.
*That caught him offguard, but he’s quick to get behind the ball, wagging his finger at the detective chidingly.*
Now Detective, thats entrapment and you know it. I say no, you can come at me like a spider monkey for saying you’re unattractive. I say yes, and one of your tribemates jumps down my throat with a hand grenade.
*The corners of his lips curl up in a wry smirk, theurge looking off across the bar.*
[Izzy Montoya] That smirk blossoms into being again, as she lifts her drink for another healthy swig. “…says the one trying to get me drunk.”
Not that it seems she minds. Some might even suggest she’s enjoying the little verbal spar – that is, if the Detective were said to enjoy anything other than shooting people she talks too. “I don’t see any of the tribe here, do you?” the tribe. not her tribe. Rebellion in the simplest of ways.
She’s still watching him, too. Allowing him to look away without commenting on it, but not shying away from any contact either. Its really no wonder that her own tribe has beaten her in the middle of the street, is it?
[Owen DeTerizzi] I would hate for someone to think they had to defend your honor…. Moon’s too full for that crap.
*Looking away. Izzy gets to study the thick of his hair, the straight of his nose, dark good looks. He was handsome in an unconventional way, or so he’d been told. Owen cared about looking relatively presentable, and that was as far as it went most days. Tonight his jacket is messy with shed fur, grain of his hands grass stained. Green thumbs. And forefingers. And palms.*
This a usual haunt?
[Izzy Montoya] “You assume I have honor to defend.”
Slow, the ease of the tension in her spine. It rides there still, but not so obvious. And study him she does – she is with someone, but she is not dead. And when that someone has been undercover, incommunicado for months now, well. Izzy gets a bit testy when she’s tense. We’ll leave it like that.
“One of them. Most of my coworkers find it beneath them. Thus, I find it perfect.”
[Owen DeTerizzi] I Think I understand that. Its not an escape, if work comes with you.
*As made clear by the bellowing loudmouth Owen was brought by, who teeters over to slap a ham hand on the theurge’s shoulder, muttering something through beer and thick lips, before winking and wobbling back towards the jukebox. Dark lashes knit together a moment, stained fingers coming to rub at his temple as the tall spirit talker stands. *
Great. We’re hitting another bar. …. And doing Karaoke, apparently. That’s my cue to disappear, I’m afraid.
[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow, slightly, and then. “Why not tell him you’re coming home with me.”
Not exactly an invitation. More like an alibi.
[Owen DeTerizzi] *He looks down with – well.. Its not exactly a smile. Owen’s response a curve of lips that could be mockery, or could just be amusement that hasn’t quite committed yet. A shake of his head.*
Watch yourself, Tricky Vixen.
*That said, he lays down enough cash to cover his tab and a tip, and strides casually to the mensroom. A mirror there calling his name.*
[Izzy Montoya] Well, she’s been called worse. There’s a huff of amusement as he lays down cash, and a brief last tease as he walks off.
“Chicken.”
Then, she simply turns back to her drink, and pulls out her phone. Work does follow her – even here. Just not the coworkers.