[Keith Sommers] There was a roof.
That’s where it began. The roof, with the moon almost full; almost lovely, almost a communion wafer, ready to dissolve again on the tongue of night and be a benediction. The roof: and an alley. Because — where else but an alley? Adjacent to a parking lot? On a street that was bad news, equal parts business and residence? There’s a scuffle on the roof, and maybe that’d go unnoticed, but then there’s a huge ol’ clatter, and a bicycle goes crashing down to the alley floor, things knocking askew. Loud, very loud. And Keith pokes his head over the edge of the roof, an ‘oh shit’ expression on his face.
[Izzy Montoya] There’s a scuffle on a roof, and for the most part it’s unnoticed by the Detective standing in front of a building that is at the corner of the alley and the parking lot beyond. There’s a scuffle, and it’s completely unnoticed at the beginning, because Izzy is finishing up doing what she does best – directing her team on what she sees, what she needs to see, and goddammit, Gerard, get your head out of your ass and stop contaminating the fuckin crime scene. The yellow tape remains, the last squad car pulls away, and then…
…and then there’s the clash, the clatter, then a bang, and the crash. And Izzy’s hand goes automatically for her gun. She pulls it free from the holster at the small of her back, and with the gun held by her thigh, finger on the trigger, she heads down that alleyway.
Because that’s who she is. That’s what she does.
“Who’s there?”
[Keith Sommers] Cop! A cop with a gun!
That is the second thing which crosses Keith’s mind. There are two young men on the roof with Keith; they’re crouched down. One of them is higher than that damned moon; the other is a bloody wreck. They’re both muttering to each other rapidly. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, to and fro, to and fro, the women go, something Michelangelo — how’d that song go? Wasn’t it a song? Keith ducks down a little. His eyes are visible over the edge, and his forehead, and his hair. But: a cop! A cop with a gun! is the second thing that crosses Keith’s mind.
The first is: Get of Fenris. The first is: I know where you came from.
And the third? The third is: looks jumpy; might shoot if I say anything. Time to whistle on off now, eh? In front of Izzy, the front wheel of the bicycle spin, spin, spins … and the two other guys on the roof get up and make a LOUD, NOISY, break for it.
[Izzy Montoya] She can do nothing to hide her breeding from those who are able to sense it. She’s never tried. Born and raised Fenrir, she isn’t a prissy obedient pliant fluffy kinfolk with nothing to offer but squirting out more squalling wailing brats. No, she fought and made a name for herself where other kinfolk might not. She used the blood in her veins to get where she is -shamelessly – and uses her expertise to keep others of her Tribe, of the Nation, out of reach of human law. It’s a careful line to tread, and she treads it well.
Which brings us here, where she is a cop. A cop with a gun.
The wheel spins and spins and spins and there’s the noise from up above as two make a break for it. The other – the other she can see. “I can fuckin’ see you. You think I can’t shoot a part clean through that hair of yours before you say boo? G’down here. Your crack head buddies already bailed on ya… be the bigger fuckin’ man.”
She hasn’t raised her gun. Yet.
[Keith Sommers] Be the bigger fuckin’ man.
Hehheh. That strikes him as funny; Keith’s mouth curves, and it’s a shame that nobody can see it. Not where he is. Because: it’s a quintessential Keith expression. That self-mockery, combined with that arrogance, combined with that je nais ce quois. He chokes, instead of laughing. Then he says: “Just dropped my bike, maam. Calm down! I’m coming to get it.”
He waggles his eyebrows, but the gesture’s very likely lost on her — she’s down in the alley, and he’s all the way up there on the roof. There’s no handy fire escape dropping right into the alleyway, sooooooo he’s gotta get down somehow. The stranger [palpable: Rage; much stronger than his will, and the moon’s calling to it, singing] stands up, looks down, as if gauging the best spot to jump. And then, because he is, in many ways, reckless, he swings himself down onto the brickwork of the window just below the roof, and from there, to the drain, and from there …
[Izzy Montoya] Ma’am. Christ she hates that. But he says he’s coming down, that he just dropped his bike – from the roof. Now, what his bike was doing on the roof is a good question, a very good question indeed. One she doesn’t bother to ask, at least not right now, not until he comes down to her level, and she sees just who – or what – she’s dealing with.
Instead, she watches as he swings himself down and over and jumps his way down toward the alley floor. She still hasn’t lifted her gun, but she also hasn’t looked away from him, either. That, she has a feeling, would be very unwise, and Izzy is many things? But stupid is not one of them.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] [Just watching for now, not sure if I’ll pop in or not.]
to Izzy Montoya, Keith Sommers
[Keith Sommers] Izzy has a feeling that looking away from Keith would be unwise. And this: this is where her gut, whatever intuition she claims she’s got — this is when it fails her. Because it’s never, ever looking away from Keith that is unwise; it’s looking at him for too long, for too hard, for too damned many moments when the moon’s ripening up like a woman about to birth. [From communion and the church to life– see? Makes sense.]
Ta da! The [rich kid] (golden boy) [monster] (hero) guy finally reaches ground again. He’s heavy; when he hits the ground on both feet and straightens from his crouch it’s easy, but it makes noise. “Oof,” he says, and directs his gaze down the alley, toward the street. “To be perfectly honest, the only things I want to say are sarcastic and probably going to get me arrested. Do you mind if I take my bike and go?”
Do you mind if I
That takes effort to ask.
To remember, hey, sh, it’s okay. You’re human. He’s so busy trying to remember he’s human and not just laugh, not just give in to desire and say fuck it, this is nothing, a human cop, that he doesn’t even think to note their oh so distant relationship in terms of what Nationality they really are.
[Izzy Montoya] The only things he wants to say are sarcastic. “Is that so.”
She’d watched as he’d clammored down from the roof, how he landed, how he rose from his crouch, and the way he shifts his weight easily. Athletic, certainly. Angry, most certainly – but only in the way that denotes the wash of rage that suddenly fills the alleyway. It creeps up her spine, settles like a vise between her shoulder blades, and triggers the wariness, a reaction not all together controlled.
Mind if I go? “Depends. What were ya doin up there? Anything I need t’fuckin know about?”
Anything she needs to clean up, anything she needs to hide. She still has not holstered her weapon, though it still is held at her thigh – safety off, finger on the trigger.
[Keith Sommers] Keith’s right eyebrow quirks up. He’s got expressive eyebrows; they’re usually expressive of — oh, something sarcastic; something that isn’t serious. He frowns at Izzy, tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes a little. The look’s very nearly contemplative, but that’s just what it looks like; it isn’t, actually. Izzy smells like a Get. Izzy smells like she’s a kinswoman of one of the lesser tribes, so of course: she’s abrasive, loud, and a cop. He touches the tip of his right canine with the tip of his tongue, and then he stops frowning, opting instead to release tension (it’s coiling, coiling: get ready to spring) with a gesture. He sweeps his right hand through his hair. “I really don’t think so,” he says, not quite flatly. “Except maybe this: you’re kin; not of mine. And,” he grins, suddenly. “I was trying to get my bike down — there was a rope; it wasn’t tied. The bike fell because the rope betrayed it. Sad story.”
[Izzy Montoya] She watches, and when he says she’s kin, and not his – she thumbs the safety back on, and lifts her gun under her jacket, sliding it back into the holster at the small of her back. She tugs her leather coat back into place as she removes her hand and then grabs her gloves out of her pocket, so that she can tug them on. Because it’s fuckin’ 20 degrees out here, and moving back to Chicago in the middle of winter was not one of her brighter ideas.
“Not fuckin’ anyone’s in particular. I don’t take t’claimin well.” She smirks – it’s an expression as natural as his grin. “I see. Sad story indeed. Wish I had a fuckin’ violin.”
[Keith Sommers] “So do I. I’ve always wanted some cop to whip out a violin and play an excerpt from Toccato and Fugue in D minor while I walked on my way.” He sounds perfectly serious, even if his eyebrows are still raised, juuuuust a little bit. He shrugs, and it’s edgy, the gesture; as if he had too much energy seething ‘neath his skin, and he was at a loss for how to get it out. He is at a loss: to cover that up, he hauls the bike aright. It doesn’t really look like he’ll be biking anywhere (in the snow?) anytime soon. Keith: he’s dressed well, in a coat that’s clearly tailored; that someone clearly chose because it makes him look good. Likewise the pants. Whatever’s underneath the coat. The whole ensemble: someone with taste, that probably is not him, picked it out. His grin becomes a smile, and the smile’s lopsided. “And I appreciate knowing just where you to stand, Miss.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Guess your shit outa luck then, ain’tcha. Not a musical bone in my body, which is a pity for your desire for a fuckin’ soundtrack.”
She tsks. He may sound perfectly serious, she sounds anything but. He’s on edge, that much is clear. His rage presses, thumbs, strums at her senses. It’s not the first time today she’s had Rage pressing against her, but well, that wasn’t quite as much, and in decidedly different circumstances.
There was coffee involved.
[what were YOU thinkin?]
But, back to questions and answers. He calls her Miss again. Not quite so bad as Ma’am, but well.. “Izzy.” better. “What’s your name, kid?”
[Keith Sommers] “I’ve got an ipod. You could hold it like a violin; we could turn the music up really high. Then it’d even sound like the world’s smallest.” He’s — carelessly savage in his handling of the bike; in how he sets it up, stares (without blinking) down at the wheel. Which is still spinning, and spinning, and spinning for whatever reason — he doesn’t know. He frowns when she calls him a ‘kid,’ but the frown stays sort’ve self-directed. “I’m Keith Sommers,” he says. “Are you on duty or off?”
[Izzy Montoya] She smirks as he details his plans for her to use his ipod to achieve that all important world’s smallest violin tale. He watches the wheel, and her dark eyes flick to it, then back again.
“Pleasure.” she might mean it. “And sorta both. I work Homicide. I’m on whenever there’s a case, off when the paperwork’s done.” She glances back to the yellow tape that flutters and then to him once more. “Mostly off, at this particular moment.”
[Keith Sommers] “There was a murder?” His eyes jump to her. Really, they jump; jerk. They’re a scrape of claws, that sort’ve edge. This isn’t a guilty oh no we left behind a body did we sort’ve edge. This is a: “Normal?” Why would she know? He relaxes even before she answers him, gaze wandering past her shoulder to the yellow tape that flutters. And he frowns downward, around, and then looks back at Miss Izzy, all sidelong and headcanted and: “You want to go get something to eat with me?”
[Izzy Montoya] “There’s always a fuckin’ murder. I fuckin hate the holidays.” and yes, by all accounts, and the fact that the tape is fluttering and she’s not avidly working to cover it up – it was normal human on human fucked up crime.
Then it’s her turn for a brow to raise, as he looks at her sidelong and headcanted and asks the magic question. Well, not the magic question, but one that makes her grin none the less.
“Sure – haven’t eaten since… well. hours ago. Lead on.”
[Keith Sommers] “Hm.” Keith frowns, again. All sorts’ve emotions are skimming, skidding across his features — none stay for very long. One second, smiling; grinning, almost laughing. The next, frowning; pensive. The moment after that, something else. He pulls a blackberry out of his pocket, checking it for a second, and then whoopsie daisy back it goes. And now: He gives her a look that is exaggeratedly soulful. “I know a great place. Fabulous. To die for. Meat and potatoes and grease. But it’s far. Do you have a car?” He pauses, and looks thoughtful. “Have you ever locked yourself in the back?”
[Izzy Montoya] Ok, this kid? Is interesting. She watches as the emotions skim and skid across his face, dancing a never-ending slide of gestures, facial ticks, and thought. And then he speaks of the perfect place, meat and potatoes, and her belly rumbles audibly. There’s very little excess fat on her body, her curves are slight, but she eats like a damn linebacker.
“Yes, I have a car.” And then the smirk returns. “and no. Not alone anyway.” then she nods back the way she came, presumably where her car is parked. “S’this way.”
[Keith Sommers] ” — can I drive it?” He falls into step beside her. And we know these things: that it isn’t comfortable to walk next to a [predator: that thing in the shadows; that thing picking off the herd of which you are a part of, one by one by one by one; that thing that is far too wyld, far too unbound, far too: too: too other for human ken] garou like Keith. There’s an intensity, and the intensity scrapes away — well, it scrapes away a lot. He’s charming, but sometimes it’s hard to notice. Izzy is, of course, a badass. But she’s not a stupid badass. His eyes crinkled all up when her belly rumbled. “I heard a story once,” he says. “This cop had the 2 am shift at some security outpost. You’re not supposed to sleep on your break,” he gives her a look, lucent eyed, “but people do that early anyway, because ‘lunch’ — what? He was in some district that wasn’t his, just on loan, something, so he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He got into the backseat, curled up and had a nice nap. Then he realized when he woke up half hour later that he’d left his carkeys — in the front. And his radio, too. And his gun.” Keith has the bike in tow. He’s holding it on his shoulder, because it’s not really up to the icy sidewalk.
[Izzy Montoya] “No.” She doesn’t miss a beat in answering the question, though he couldn’t have possibly expected her to say yes… because that – that would be stupid.
He tells his story, and she chuckles, an light sound that falls easily from her lips, lips that still fall into a lopsided smirk. “That’s a fuckin’ stupid cop right there. And I don’t drive a regular squad car – but I’d be happy t’lock ya up in the back if ya want a taste of the bad life.” It’s said with a bemused glance, because she knows what he is, what he’s likely done, what war he wages. The bad life? Is everyday.
[Keith Sommers] “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he says, mildly [there it is: the noblesse oblige; the aloofness that one expects from a Silver Fang. There it is, in his tone, right there: in the self-contained way he decrees that sentence]. Was just a joke, too. Wasn’t it! But Keith’s mind went to what he’d feel like caught in a box right now — and he half-glances upward, can’t see the moon, but boy can’t he feel it, and he’s running his fingers through his hair again. Then the smile’s coming back, quietly — as if it doesn’t quite fit. “Not today, anyway, but I’ll keep you in mind should I ever feel the need for some time in solitary. And: end of the story, I guess the guy called 911 to tell them to send a guy over, tried to be all quiet about what for, but the 911 operator needed it, so he says I’m locked in my car, in the back, she puts him on hold and when he comes back, he can hear laughter in the background. And when she asks him for his location? He doesn’t even know it.” He looks at her, to see what she thinks of them apples.
[Izzy Montoya] She glances upwards, briefly, then at her current companion. “Probably not.” It’s equally mild, as though she has a lot of ideas that aren’t exactly good ideas, and likely puts a great deal of them into practice.
She nods down the street. “The brown monstrosity there.” It’d be her car, of course, and then she listens to the rest of the story. The chuckle falls freely again. “Rookie mistake. Ya never call 911, ya call your fuckin’ partner, or another friend on the force.”
Not that she’d ever done anything like that.
Recently.
[Keith Sommers] “Why are you a cop?” He’s straightforward, and eyeballing her car with interest. “Will this fit in the trunk?” This being the bike, of course!
[Izzy Montoya] She answers the second, first. “Yeah, long as I move the shotgun.” Doesn’t sound like she’s kidding either. It buys her enough time to think of just how much truth to tell.
In the end, she tells it true – just the way she has everyone else she has. “To cover your fuckin’ ass.” She’s kin, but not his – chances are, she means the greater form of ‘you’ when she speaks. “Not lookin to squirt out any fuckin’ brats, so figured I’d best make myself useful in other ways, so as not to get too much grief from fuckers wanting to tell me to spread’em.”
A grin, a smirk. “So I tell other people to.” Aw, Cop’s got jokes.
[Keith Sommers] “You could have them in the more usual way,” he says. “Or the less usual way, I should say; have them cut out, when they’re ready to be children.” She shocked him, and it shows; tiny earthquakes. He isn’t any angrier than he already is, but shocked? Yeah: shocked. “We need children.”
[Izzy Montoya] She smirks, slightly, and glances at him as they near the car, and she unlocks the trunk so he can put his bike in – reaching in first to grab her shotgun.
She wasn’t kidding.
She holds it as he gets his bike situated, and then nods. “Anyone Jarl approved wants my fuckin’ breedin, they can go to the cryo tank an’ get th’eggs that carry it. I ain’t fuckin’ poppin no kids out – but it ain’t goin’ t’waste, either.”
[Keith Sommers] “Are the Glass Walkers involved in that?” He looks wary, as if she’d just told him something alien. However: a flicker of amusement — of merry amusement! Play havoc! — in his eyes when she moves the shotgun and lo indeed she hadn’t been kidding. “Are you afraid?” he asks, after more-or-less carefully squeezing his bike in.
[Izzy Montoya] “Fenrir doc – friend of the family, so I don’t ask questions. All that matters is I ain’t gotta spend 9 months laid up every fuckin’ year just so the Tribe gets to continue on. For all I fuckin’ know, I got 15 kids around somewhere.”
She waits until the bike is in, and keeps the shotgun, which she then places on the back seat. She unlocks his door, and then asks. “Of what?” loaded question…
[Keith Sommers] He was going to say something else. As it is: his forehead wrinkles, and he goes around to the passenger side. He’ll pull pull pull on the handle before it’s unlocked — too much energy; he can’t help it. “You tell me?” He can’t hold the pose. His features relax into a smirk, something mischievous and proud. “I was going to say of giving birth, but I guess you have other motivations.”
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts, and shakes her head. “No. There’s very little I’m afraid of, precious. Givin birth ain’t even on th’fuckin charts.”
She puts the keys in the ignition, ignores her seatbelt, doesn’t tell him to buckle his, and then looks at him as the car roars to life. It’s a police grade vehicle – the engine is clearly more souped up than one would think. “Squatin out a kid is one sure way for one of you fuckers to claim my ass. Already told ya, I ain’t into that. I like t’fuck around too much.” She might be kidding. She probably isn’t.
“Now, where we goin?”
[Izzy Montoya] (Le pause – so Jess has to start next time! HAHAHAHAH)
[Keith Sommers] (DOOM ON YOU!)