[Linus] He was dressed in the rudimentary suggestion of black. The sort of faded multiple tint suggestion of one end of the Colour spectrum that defies any co-ordination of fashion and speaks money and bets about goodwill donations and salvation army drop box raids. A thick dark hoodie, touched with holes were caught on fences as hooligans ran from chasing cops in desperate glee and anarchy. Thick black cargo pants, once new and fresh and now rumpled and salt stained. A pair of garrison boots probably seen the better part of a gangland curb stomping.
A simple black winter cap and a balaclava, bunched up around the neck. A pair of gloves, fingerless and fraying at the cut off ends, rising so a thin line of pale lips can blow a hot breath across exposed knuckles.
He’s standing on the sidewalk, legs evenly spread and body posture the sort of still that doesn’t belong on sidewalks. The sort of thing that gets in the way of pedestrians who were not few at this time of night, with 24 hour restaurants and their patrons and family business dinners and diners open to the Karaoke bars and club goers. Asian cut throats, a half foot shorter than Linus himself, wandering up and down streets with well-made up girls on arms and under shoulders.
Faux Punk fashionistas, flicking out switch-blades and dangling more metal from cute anime grins, tutus and suggestive anarchy.
A vice in fishnets, short skirt and suggestion, leaning out over curbsides half a block down, eying passing sedans and volvos and mercedes, with a pot bellied, aging man with a taste for yellow tail, behind the driver’s seat. While a white suited oriental stands among a collection of black suits down some alley, with a low roofed restaurant spitting garish yellow light up against a wall, watching on patiently.
Chinatown was a celebration of decay. A suggestion of the glamour that lures and the professionalism of corruption. You could taste half the foul and fail in the air and yet the brilliance with which it shined, could not help but be admired. That was half the charm. Half the cause. All of the schtick.
He stared over car hoods, bumping shoulders and jostling with Mandarin speaking youths, yelling expletives in his direction as they walked and laughed and joked down the sidewalk. Ignorant or lost.
His eyes are of statics, you see. Other worlds and lost. The Rage is a whisper to get lost. A suggestion for the drunks who might want to make more of poking fun. He is an outsider looking in. Head tilting off to one side, blowing heat over knuckles he can still feel but can’t see.
[Izzy Montoya] She is not happy.
Some would argue that Detective Izzy Montoya is never happy, but they would be wrong. Of course, those that could prove it have mysteriously disappeared, so perhaps they just don’t want to know exactly what makes her happy, what makes her tick. It simply seems to be too dangerous a path to take, discovering such things.
Regardless, Izzy is not happy – more so than usual, if that explanation pleases – with her transfer, with what she’s discovering, with what her gut is telling her. What is her gut telling her?
Primarily that it’s been 9 hours since it’s been fed. Which would be why the dark sedan – boxy and doing nothing to hide it’s ‘cop’ status, despite it’s lack of markings – is pulled up to a curb nearby some noodle hut or another. They’re all the same, really, when one breaks it down, so it doesn’t matter which.
What matters is this – she hasn’t gotten out of the car yet. She’s sitting there, in the driver’s seat, her head against the rest, her eyes mostly closed as she finishes her umpteenth cigarette of the night.
[John] It would be a lie to say that when the moon fattens up like this, swelling like a balloon that can only tolerate so much strain and volume, that he doesn’t start to feel the tug towards war. Not even war: war serves a purpose, has clearly defined lines, has some semblance of etiquette to it but what he feels isn’t organized or exceptional but simply the drumming of his heart in his chest, the blood heating up despite the chill in the air.
For being born beneath a moon meant for war, Drawn in Blood is not a savage. He could be; he has it in him. Yet even as the light shines brighter on the streets below he does not snarl and snap at anyone who dares come too close, who accidentally brushes against him. It doesn’t happen, for starters. No one draws near enough to touch him when his Rage is like this.
He emerges from the subway station like a wave of steam escaping from a broken vent, hands ungloved, hood on his jacket down, light eyes sweeping the street for threats before he zips up his jacket and keeps walking. Since arriving in Chicago he has not shaved the stubble from his face; it, like the moon, is passing through phases, the current one being the weeks of scruff that proceed a full beard taking its place. It makes him look wilder than he ought to, as though he ought to be out in a cabin in the woods instead of prowling the city streets looking for Christ knows what.
He isn’t wild with it, but that doesn’t matter. He, contained, is more than most human can handle, so he keeps his eyes off of them and focuses on getting where he needs to be.
[Linus] “…Fuckin’…lovely…”
His eyes pull back into his skull, or attentions rather than the physical suggestion. He blinks, frowns and grinds palms into gazes as the strain of diving between worlds irritates like allergens. A gust of breath escapes his mouth and shoulders roll to release tension beneath the layers upon layers he is wearing to keep out a chill, despite the evening’s relative comfort levels at just below freezing.
His hands fall away to reveal the vague bloodshot and the dark circles of tired that are perhaps a Godi’s path and one of only a few theurge’s in the city actively seeking to staunch the tide and maintain some semblance of order with Gaia’s spiritual number. His jaw works slowly, a circuit with a thin layer between molars, like he might chomp down on gristle and gnaw it for hours. That gaze remains rooted on the building across the street, three doors over at a diagonal from his position.
Squat. Three stories. Black and suggestive browns with curtain black windows and a single street visible door, tucked deep inside an alcove that could hold the first six bodies in a concert line-up before anyone’s feet touched the sidewalk. His jaw works a tick-…quick and disassembling…as some kid shoulders by him, swinging wide arms and egos. He yells something in cantonese, leaning head forward on a stalky neck, DBZ hairstyle and giggling girls and chums continuing to walk unimpeded onward.
Linus’ tick is because of him and the Kid continues walking with a laugh and a flashy show of middle fingers dressed up in fake diamond rings. To which the reply is a low-toned, barely restrained hum of-
“Yeah yeah. Keep walking, you little shit stain. You and this City…” And his gaze returns to the building, sniffing tribe and Rage coming up the sidewalk. “Going to burn the lot of you down one day, if it kills me.”
[John] As he ambles down the sidewalk with his hands pushed into his pockets, the Modi’s ears catch what his eyes do not: a muted altercation, fraught with quiet tension, scuffling feet and rustling clothing. It draws his eyes up, slowly rather than snapping, the brown hair on his jaws concealing whatever movement of teeth might occur beneath the skin. Nostrils flare, strangely grateful not to be threatening with freezing by the night air, yet he does not hasten his stride.
Bone-Writer looks like shit. All of them–those who are taking this seriously, that is, those of them who are out on those streets more than once a day prowling their territory in a futile effort to take back what they’re desperately losing–are tired, stretched too thin. Of all of them, John is among the ones who looks as though he’s holding up the best. He came to Chicago with scant stores of winter fat, with a recently-shaven jaw and a cynical enthusiasm for what it is they hoped to accomplish here.
His weight is holding, but his enthusiasm has turned to loyalty. He won’t leave until the Hive is gone, or he’s been turned to ash. He’s already made his sacrifice, and he can’t undo it now. He wouldn’t.
As he joins the Godi on the sidewalk, he gestures to the punk wandering off down the street as though he’s accomplished something. With a deadpan expression marred only by a questioning furrowing of his brow, the Modi swings a few powerless left-hand hooks, as if asking if Linus needs assistance. It’s pointless: there are too many of them, too many disrespectful little bastards running around, but this one is new. He hasn’t yet figured out that unlike out in the country the assholes are plentiful.
[Izzy Montoya] She takes a final drag off her cigarette, and leans forward to stub it to death in the ashtray of the car, before she takes a breath, and hauls herself out of the car. She slams the door shut – it complains with a metallic groan – and steps around to the sidewalk. Her exhaustion shows in her stance, in the subtle slump of her shoulders before she forces them up and back. It’s a slight break, and one has to be looking to see it, as by the time she steps up onto the curb, she is fully into her persona, her stance, her facade. She is The Law, and woe to any who dare cross her today.
She stands out in a crowd, for several reasons: for the mundane, it is simply the way she carries herself, like a bitch with a badge. For the garou, it’s something in the air, something like a scent, something that tugs at the senses and shouts of heroes and victories and battles and blood – rich coppery fierce blood.
It’s a glance that sees the two Fenrir down the way, and it’s a hesitation as she contemplates the two choices of noodle huts – one that takes her past them, another that takes her in the opposite direction.
She picks the former.
[Linus] “…Leave it.”
A snort. the sound a suggestion for the Modi to heed formed on the Godi’s lips;
“Warriors need not stoop to slaying Ants. Modi need not form fists over Cowards made of words and pretty clothes.” A beat, head tilting, nose sniffing back, throat sucking and lips spitting into the curb without his eyes ever leaving that building across the street. “Grudge~Cracker.” Athro. Forseti. Hard ass Fenrir in his Fifties, that chewed up Cliaths down in Florida when he was a Cliath himself and now did it professionally. “In other words-”
And Linus turns finally to regard John, gaze placing itself in direct correlation to the Modi’s shoulder and the piece of Tribal ‘blood’ climbing out of her car. He sniffs again-
“-Spend your attention on every little shit you run into and you ain’t gonna have enough for a Good time or a Good death.” He nods up toward Izzy coming in their direction, though whether it was indication for John or a hello to the Kinfolk is not exactly clear.
“How’s life serving the Big Bird?” Oh yes, Linus had heard about Eagle. The Spirit realm had been buzzing for days after news of his Patronage climbing back into Maelstrom’s pantheon. It was a bold statement to say the least. Bolder yet for the body that claimed it. Bolder still for the promises that it made and the names to live up to.
Linus knew. He had heard. The question was casual in it’s profoundness.
[John] For all anyone knows Drawn in Blood has some semblance of a sense of humor buried under his grizzled exterior. He laughs more frequently than anyone would accuse either a Fenrir or a mute to be capable or willing, yet when he cannot vocalize, when he cannot spell for shit, it doesn’t leave much room for levity, let alone outright hilarity. He and Bone-Writer are the same rank, yet it’s becoming fairly well-known that while he was born to two humans, they also happened to be Garou.
He has no delusions that he is the equal of his like-ranked peers. The Godi refers to the wild-haired youth as ants, reminds him of where his energy ought to be placed, and for a brief moment between the mention of Grudge-Cracker and what will happen if he wastes every idiot he comes across, he seems as though he’s paying attention. It doesn’t last. He has the good grace not to look annoyed or put out by a spirit-talker sharing with him wisdom, but he also doesn’t look like he’s heeding it too closely, either.
At some point he lowers his fist, gives a facial shrug that equates to Alright, and follows the homid’s gaze towards the kinswoman. Eyebrows briefly light on his forehead, and he lifts his chin in a Sup? to Izzy before looking back.
The question doesn’t have John looking so confused as it might have had Big Bird had another mapping in his brain. It doesn’t, so they’re both spared. He bobs his head in a nod, giving a thumb’s up, but that hardly encompasses the magnitude of the spirit’s return to Chicago. Perhaps he doesn’t grasp the significance; that can hardly be the case. He’s heard of Imogen Slaughter wherever it is that he claims to come from. No doubt he knows of Silence, the Athro of his moon.
He partially unzips his jacket, making room for his off hand to dig through the interior left-side pocket for a leather-bound journal and a pen. Clicking the latter, he flips to a clean space in the first quarter of the journal and starts writing, tongue pushed into the back of an incisor as he does so.
[Izzy Montoya] Linus, perhaps, says hello with that nod, or he simply let’s John know that she approaches. Either way, she treats it the same as she does John’s nod a moment later, with a flicker of recognition, a slight lift of her chin. It serves as hello until she closes the distance between them.
When she pauses to make the duo a trio, John is writing in his notebook to answer some question posed to him. She doesn’t interrupt, simply tucks her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket in a search for warmth.
“Evening.”
Not good, of course. Simplicity, brevity, and all the hello she’s likely to ever give. Not one for small talk, Izzy.
[Linus] “Glad you joined us detective.”
It’s the first words out of his mouth during his scrutiny of the building nearby, turning from the Mute Modi after his delivered ‘words of wisdom’, distracted as they may well have been. They were also a suggestion by the looks of the Godi’s gaze, which seems less intent on his ‘Family’ then he does on the structure and it’s rather inconspicuous nature (lack of gawdy, lack of glam, lack of anything showy; a backdrop piece. Forgettable). His jaw unhinges slightly, flexing muscles used to slinging insults and speaking with fires and rock.
“Place across the street is a Drug den of some sort. Puts chains on bodies that go in and out. A couple hundred feeding right out of the door on the Flipside. Nothing dominance oriented so I wouldn’t say slavery or Prostitution. Almost voluntary really…” Gaze narrows, jaw thrust forward a little.
“Could be an addiction. Drug party of some sort or another.” A murmured whisper, turning finally to eye the pair of them as if the prior words were something different. As if they had another conversation in the wings. The godi regards Izzy with a directness born of honesty. Born of flagrant disregard.
“You look like an Ahroun used you to wipe their ass.”
[Izzy Montoya] He’s glad she’s joined them, but only in a distracted sort of way. Still, he remembered her preferred choice in monikers, and that is a mark in his favor. Of course, by virtue of his birth, he’s climbing an uphill battle there, whether or not he knows it. Some things simply are.
He describes what he sees, and she arches a brow slightly, turning to study the building he describes. Something tightens in her, coils about her shoulders, sneaks down her spine, twists into a ball of disgust, hatred, that she doesn’t allow to show in her face past the flex of muscle as she grinds her jaw, briefly.
It passes, as he comments on her looks. That gets a snort of amusement. “It’s fuckin’ been a fucked up week.”
[Linus] “…Fucked up life.”
Is the only real response the Godi offers, half-shrugging through a comment made up of cynicism and the stoic lack of regret. Eyes forward to Ragnarok and glorious ends. He leaves off the building and turns toward the noodle place, a glance at John offered and forgotten near as quick as it is made, the Metis’ scribbling a distracted thing that he leaves alone for the moment.
“So what’s the procedure with that anyway? You need a warrant or something like all CSI ‘n shit?” He nods at Izzy and nods back toward the structure behind him.
[Izzy Montoya] He starts to the noodle place, after giving John a nod that invites him along. She adds her own with a touch along his arm, brief yet familiar, as she falls into step with the Godi. It’s proof positive how messed up her past couple weeks have been if she’s choosing to hang out with her Tribe, hm? It’s something previously so rare that other’s wouldn’t believe it even if seen with their own eyes.
Discussion, however, is still on the possible drug house. And CSI.
“An anonymous tip would set the wheels in motion. Investigation, a warrant, a raid, eventual arrests.” a beat, a shrug. “Not my department.”
Anymore.
[John] By the time he’s found a page that isn’t drawn or written on, the conversation has moved away from the totem his pack has chosen to the building across the street. John lifts his gaze, ignoring or forgetting whatever it was he was going to say, and clicks his pen asleep again, tucking the journal and writing instrument back into his jacket as though that’s all he has to say about that. That accomplished, a hand presses against the thick padding over his arm, though it does little to muffle the strength in his body, let alone his appendages.
A nod, an acquiescence, and he starts to walk with her. There would be no question as to why it is she’s choosing to accompany her blood even if he could speak; he does not know about her disdain for those who were here in previous years, about what’s happened to her. The spirits, via the Gibbous Moons, proclaim her mouthy and disrespectful. He has seen hints of the former yet none of the latter.
Linus speaks of chains, of addiction, and John doesn’t question it further. Perhaps he should; yet there is little he can do to involve the human police. His mind wanders, yet his voice is still to begin with. It remains that way as they walk.
[Linus] “…Fuck that. Watered down bureaucratic horse jockey-”
The Godi pulls the door to the noodle place open, doing the courtesy of putting a couple fingers on the glass as he enters so that the door is somewhat ajar for Izzy to grab and let herself in. His hands go into Hoodie pockets, eyes to the marshal of cooks behind the counter still serving hungry Teenagers fresh out of bars and giggling to one another on some artificial high or other. He snaps his teeth at a couple that offer him a lip and a stare, before veering off toward a nearby table with benches to sit on.
“Rather just gut the place in the flip and hop over. Mortals can go runnin’ out the doors all terror and piss. Bring the cops ’round quick enough to do some sort of job or other.” He settles onto a bench and motions a hand at one of the few servers left in the place.
“…You gonna share with the class?” A glance at the Mute. John may have forgotten or dismissed what he was writing but the Godi seemed interested.
[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow slightly. “Then why ask, if ya don’t like th’fuckin’ answer?” It’s said with a touch of amusement though. “Ya already knew it’d be fuckin’ paper-pushin horseshit.” Oh the mouth on her… She lifts a shoulder into a slight shrug, before unzipping her coat, and pushing it back a bit, before she settles to a seat.
She smooths her slacks over her thigh, crossing one leg over the other. She settles back, her hands folded in her lap for the time being.
Linus returns to his questioning of John, and Izzy simply listens.
[John] [PAUSE THANKS GUYS SORRY I LOST TRACK OF TIME]
[Izzy Montoya] [pause or something!]