[Izzy Montoya] It’s 14degrees outside. 14F. Moving back to Chicago in the Winter was not the Brightest Idea. In fact, about right now, it feels Really Fucking Stupid, and someone is missing Miami sunshine.
That same someone is currently crouched in a room, just inside an open door to an establishment who’s outside is decorated with yellow police tape that encourages caution. She’s visible from the street by both the windows, and the open door, but what one finds is something that looks very simple. She’s crouched near the chalk outline, all the evidence having been bagged n’ tagged, the rest of her team having already left, leaving just Izzy to study the scene. It’s how she prefers it. It’s how she works best.
Her forearms rest lightly on her knees, her fingers encased in latex gloves, her eyes locked on the outline before her, the bloodspatter underneath, the room at large. She looks to be thinking. Perhaps… listening – though to what is anybodies guess…
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 4, 6, 8 (Failure at target 7)
[Izzy Montoya] [Oh Kahseeno, still being a bitch I see. Knock it off!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8) Re-rolls: 1
[Izzy Montoya] [Better. carry on. :) ]
[Irene] It don’t get this cold out west.
At least, that’s the way that memory works. Some of the most unpleasant aspects of life are forgotten about, made to seem less than they actually were, idealized so as to make the current situation seem more than it actually is. It may very well have gotten down to fourteen degrees Fahrenheit some days while she was still in Montana, but she will be damned if she can remember ever actually being this cold before. It isn’t as though she has never been this far north, before. It isn’t as though the tires of that piece of shit truck hadn’t carried her and her sisters just as far into Canada as they had gone into Mexico, it isn’t as though she hasn’t felt extremes before.
By the very definition of ‘extreme,’ she would fit quite nicely.
She stalks down the street rather than walking. There isn’t much to her. She’s almost six feet tall, thin as a post, wearing battered work boots and black jeans and a rose-colored Carhartt jacket, blond hair down and caught on the breeze. She isn’t alone, and she has to keep remembering that her companion doesn’t walk with as much coiled violence and angered steps as she does.
There is not an overabundance of bodies out on the street today, but those that are are giving the two of them a wide berth. The blonde just looks, feels, seems like something stepped out of a nightmare, like something unhinged and easily incited.
Her nostrils flare as something comes along on the wind, and she jerks her head to her sister before indicating the police-taped doorway without a word. Most of what she does is without a word. After a year and some odd months, Alek has to be used to this.
[Rhian] *It’s the weekend, and what’s more the kids are back. Not that her mother wouldn’t gladly have kept them longer but there’s school to prepare for and it’s been a long time, it’s possible they haven’t missed her much but it’s been something of a shock to find out just how much she really wanted them back. How she’d looked in on their empty bedroom each night and had to check herself from getting out the plastic mugs at breakfast time.
But now, here they are, as large as life and twice as full of living. Padded out with coats and hats, scarves and boots, though nothing on earth will persuade Anya to keep gloves on for more than a few minutes at a time. The two of them leap and jump and race around her, even Rhys can’t seem to maintain his calm for long. Two voices chattering, half and half, Welsh and English, about what they’ve been doing as Rhian tried to follow and respond, and watch the street at the same time*
[Alek] They’re like opposites, like light and dark. Irene is tall, thin, filled with barely contained wrath. Alek is a bit shorter, though still tall for a woman, and though she carries more Rage than she Changed with, next to Irene she seems mild mannered.
Where Irene stalks down the street like an beast searching an outlet for her fury, Alek ambles at a pace that more or less matches her sister. She grins at the people who look their way, at the way they suddenly avert their eyes and alter their path to avoid a collision with these two women. If in those few seconds when their frightened eyes meet that pretty young face before they look away they imagine they see a Cheshire Cat smile, well, they wouldn’t be entirely off the mark.
Alek’s shoulder-length black hair has been twisted up off her neck, with thick chunks of bangs and shorter layers flying free to whip about her face in the wind. Her dark eyes survey their surroundings curiously. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of a faded black pea coat, a cream colored scarf is twined about her neck. Faded blue jeans and a pair of old work boots complete her ensemble.
Irene jerks her head in the direction of the taped off doorway, Alek turns down the corners of her mouth, juts out her bottom lip, and nods once. The pair of them stride into the house with purpose, as if they were part of the taskforce chraged with investigating the crime scene. Or like self-important tourists who can’t be bothered with warning signs and tape that reads Do Not Cross.
Alek catches the whiff of breeding before they come upon the woman crouched in the room by the chalk outline, but it’s a moment before she turns her attention to her. She looks around the room, taking in the scenery, the chalk, the little tags detailing where things were found, lets out a low whistle.
Then, finally, she turns to the woman. “Well, hello there, Princess. What have we got here?”
[Izzy Montoya] As she listens [or so it appears], dark eyes shift over the scene, as if following something only she can see, some line of evidence, of occurrences that only she is privy too. Her fingers clasp loosely together, the latex clinging to her fingertips, one of which she taps lightly against her knuckles.
Though she is largely silent, currently, there are things that draw the attention – the least of which is the obvious ‘under cover’ vehicle parked outside – muddy brown, four door, large trunk, practically screams ‘cop’. Another, of course, is her breeding, though it only attracts those in the know. Her blood tells the tale of heroes long dead before her birth, of vikings and victory and war and sings of passion and possibilities.
Otherwise, Izzy is no great beauty, or so she’d say despite those who disagree. She’s lean, all muscle and slender curves, most of which is hidden under the full length trench coat she wears. (All hail cop cliche!) The coat is open, flared back around her feet, despite the cold. Under the coat, it’s ‘business casual’ done in such a way that it screams ‘cop’. Dark slacks, a lighter blue blouse tailored to fit her slender form well. Her hair is long, loose and wavy about her shoulders, and dark – but not near as dark as her eyes.
And that’s when Alex talks. And calls her princess. And steps into the room. Izzy doesn’t bother to look, she points a finger back at them before they get too close to the evidence markers. Just in case. “Don’t cross that fuckin’ line – you mess up this crime scene and I’ll have your fuckin heart on a platter.”
Yeah. She feels the rage wash over the room, too. She simply doesn’t care. She had gotten what she came for, though. She knows who she’s looking for, she knows it’s simply a human murder – though more often than not there is nothing ‘simple’ about it. She knows she won’t have to hide anything in the evidence, won’t have to work doubletime to cover up another mistake of the Nation. And she knows who did the deed – at least the first name, the sound of their voice. All from a simple moment taken to listen. Now to process the right evidence to put the motherfucker away.
She stands, fluidly, and turns to face them, that smirk resting easily across her lips, as she arches a brow. “Who the fuck’re you?”
So polite, so pleasant, so… Izzy.
[Rhian] *Rhys elbows his sister out of the way with all of his seven year old self-importance, he places himself between Rhian and the little girl in her flowered, puffy coat. With savage pleasure, Rhys explains just how and why Nain had asked him especially to carry all the logs from the barn, and Rhian listens, keeping half an eye on Anya. The story goes on. Rhys gestures with hands encased in knitted green gloves . . . something or other was that big! . . but by now Anya is getting bored, her five year old patience running out and Rhian can feel it. She’s about to interject, to ask Rhys to tell her the rest later . . anything to forestall whatever she can see brewing in Anya’s blue eyes.
And then those eyes narrow suddenly, and with a pink and flowery squirm and a dash, Anya is under the yellow tape and charging full pelt into the middle of the roome beyond*
[Irene] The prowling stops once the whiff of breeding reaches them on the breeze. Whoever this is isn’t a Fury; she’s Fenrir, couldn’t be mistaken for anything else unless one’s nose and eyes happened to malfunction at the precise same moment, and she is clearly not at all intimidated or frightened by the swell of Rage that appears at her back before she turns around. She points, and she smirks, and she cusses, and the tall blonde appears at the slightly shorter brunette’s side, hands plunging into the pockets of her jacket and nostrils sniffing up cold-produced snot as she comes to a halt for the first time in several blocks.
Neither of them can be too far out of their teens, if they’ve even passed that threshold, and yet so far as the Nation is concerned they became adults just as soon as they were able to submit to their Rites of Passage. Never mind that the taller of them looks like she ought to be in a classroom right now. She also doesn’t look as though she would last two seconds in an academic environment. There is a wildness in her eyes, an electric intensity that speaks of her being mere words away from snapping; yet she’s used to it. This isn’t a wolf who has just completed a strenuous fight, run herself into the ground without burning off any of her anger. This is how she always is. She’s gotten used to it.
“You a cop’r some’in?” the blonde drawls mere seconds before someone’s pup comes tearing past the two of them and pushes underneath the yellow tape. Irene’s hand shoots out to grab the kid by the back of the coat before she can get too far, but she’s too high up and the kid is too fast for her. So she just lets her go.
[Alek] Don’t cross that fuckin’ line.
That makes Alek chuff out a soft chuckle, full lips quirked in a grin, almond shaped eyes dancing. “You tryin’ to order me around, Get?” she asks, all good humor. Still, she stays on this side of whatever line Izzy pointed out, does a full turn in place as she looks about the room.
Which brings her face to face with a small child hurtling into the building. Irene reaches for the child, but her hands grasp at empty air. Alek steps forward to intercept, immediately drops to a crouch. If the child is human, she’ll run away shrieking in terror when she gets within a few feet of the crouched animal waiting for her. If she’s not, well, Alek has arms for grabbing, and spreads them to arrest the child’s forward momentum.
“Whoa whoa whoaa! Hold your horses there, kiddo.”
[Izzy Montoya] The kid doesn’t get to the middle of the room. Irene tries to catch her- misses, but AleK corrals the kid before she gets too far. That’s good – Izzy don’t much care for kids. Of course, it doesn’t stop her from commenting. “Don’t make me fuckin’ shoot you, kid. Where’s your mom?”
Subtle, ain’t she.
She peels her hands free from the latex, shoving the gloves into the pocket of her coat, and then reaches under the coat to place her right hand on her hip, fingers curled inwords, knuckles resting lightly at her belt. It’s a purposeful placement, but she’s not actively reaching for the gun at the small of her back. Yet.
Irene asks if she’s a cop or something, and the smirk returns. “What gave it away, the fuckin’ yellow tape, the car outside, or the fact I’m standin’ in the middle of an obvious motherfuckin’ crime scene that ya’ll got no fuckin’ business bein in?” And for Alek, that same bemused little smirk. “And yes. This here’s my territory until that tape comes down.” A jerk of her chin. “Outside.” a beat, and a clearly amused, and not entirely heartfelt “Please.”
[Rhian] *Alek’s move brings her up short, the kid in the pink coat sees the move, tries to stop, her boots skidding on the streaky floor, and she lands with a plop right between Alek’s outspread arms. Blue eyes as round as marbles now and she lets out a scream all right, straight at Alek’s face . . as much outrage, and aggression as fear . . though she is clearly scared*
[Rhian] *Meanwhile, Rhian makes a grab for the girl and misses, seeing her disappear into the house. She catches Rhys by the hand and, despite protestations of innocence, drags him over to the doorway and the yellow tape just in time to hear Anya scream. She can feel the Rage that soaks into the atmosphere here, no wonder Anya chose to run this way! . . but she grits her teeth and sticks her head in* Anya! . . dewch allan, nawr!
[Alek] Alek snatches the child up, the Big Bad Wolf disguised as something younger and prettier than Grandma but just as likely to swallow the girl whole. She doesn’t, of course. She doesn’t even completely wrap her arms around the slight figure before she’s turning her and giving her a shove back toward the door, toward the mother no doubt already on her way to collect the wayward youngster.
Whether she goes or not, Alek rests her forearms on her thighs, hands dangling between her knees. She looks up at her sister with that same mild smile. By now, Irene knows what kind of monster lurks behind that pleasant expression. She rolls her eyes, Ah, Get, before rolling fluidly back to her feet.
She grins at Izzy, and bows at the waist, making a grand, sweeping gesture with her arm toward the door. “My lady liege princess, after you.” There’s danger in her smile, in the flash of perfect white teeth as she looks back up at the kinfolk with hooded dark eyes.
[Irene] The cop smirks, and the blonde has apparently decided that she’s going to make a better choice than tearing through the yellow police tape. She doesn’t stick around for her to get too far past What gave it away; her lip curls into a soundless snarl, and she turns away from the crime scene without further comment. If the crime scene were the result of the Corrupter’s activity, or one of Chicago’s Trueborn populace being sloppy, she’d have to imagine that the cop would have said something to one of them. That is, if she could recognize them for what they are. Not all Kinfolk can.
At any rate, Irene disappears around the corner and pulls a pack of Camel Lights out of her breast pocket. She briefly glances to the side as the frazzled Fianna kinswoman comes running after her shrieking child, then pops a cigarette between her lips and cups her hands to shield the flame from the wind. The Zippo clinks as she claps it shut, and she turns her back to the breeze as she blows out her first breath.
Let Alek deal with it, must be her thinking.
[Adamidas] New Hampshire used to get this cold.
She remembers it vividly, and remembers it with a degree of fondness. This, however, it not the point. The point is that the female- almost five feet eight inches tall with those damned I-am-going-to-break-my-neck-in-these half-heel-half-platforms made her way down the street. Her coat was black, her hair was dark, her hat was awkward and had cat ears on it. Adamidas is young, or at least looks young, so she gets these gifts and makes use of them.
A backpack on one shoulder.
A bag of what smelled like tacos in the other. A loss of rock-paper-scissors, who knew
She is Alethea Penelope Adamidas- Maiden and Bringer of Tacos. There is no more sacred duty. She’s whistling the Andy Griffith themesong as she approaches her sisters and… a cop. It makes her stop for a moment, and there is perceptible something in her step.
She approaches anyway, though, but much slower.
[Izzy Montoya] “Not fuckin’ likely.” Now, if she means the ‘princess’ comment, or that she’s going first and putting her back to Alek, she doesn’t clarify. She gestures toward the door, and then steps to the side to grab her leather gloves off the floor to the side where she’d dropped them on arrival. She pulls them onto her fingers, smoothing them across her palms and tugging them so that they fit snug enough to allow her to keep the dexterity she may need if she does end up reaching for that weapon.
She and Alek decide who goes first – likely both walking out the door at near the same time, and Izzy pulls the door closed behind her once everyone is outside.
Only then does she look at Rhian, then down to the kid. “Good way to get her ass fuckin’ shot. Or worse. Put’er on a fuckin’ leash until she can respect fuckin’ boundaries.”
Izzy: Mother of the Year.
She reaches into the pocket of her coat, and grabs a pack of gum, taking her time unwrapping it and folding the stick into her mouth. Chicago’s gonna make her start smoking again – she can fuckin’ feel it.
[Rhian] *Anya struggles, and manages a fairly convincing snarl as Alek lifts her off the ground, but that level of resistance is short lived and she quickly resorts to just attempting to kick Alek and wriggling until handed back to Rhian. For her part, though she steps aside to let the blonde woman past, she’s most focussed on getting Anya back onto her side of the tape. She grabs the child and sets her down beside the boy, keeping a firm hold on her now to prevent any further escape attempts.*
sorry *she says, in the vague direction of the cop* she just got away, I hope she hasn’t spoiled anything . .
*like what? . . she doesn’t really know what to say*
*For her part, now there’s a distance between them, Anya is giving Alek the eye . . and finally, pokes her tongue out as a parting gesture before turning away*
[Irene] Out of the distance comes the Theurge, felt before she is seen. The first Adamidas sees of Irene, the Ahroun is leaning against a building’s face, holding a cigarette like a pencil and resting one foot flat against the brick, taking long, furious drags off of the cigarette while she waits for their Alpha to emerge from the building.
There is a flurry of cuss words behind her, the same one over and over again, and Irene looks over at the cop with an expression of consternation on her features. She looks tired, with bruises beneath her eyes and a worn quality to her thin face, and she blows a stream of smoke away from Izzy as she emerges out on the sidewalk.
“Ain’t no reason to talk to her like that,” she says.
[Rhian] *Anya manages a fairly convincing snarl as Alek herds her towards the door, but that level of resistance is short lived and she quickly gives up. For her part, Rhian steps aside to let the blonde woman past, she’s most focussed on getting Anya back onto her side of the tape. She grabs the child and tucks her in beside the boy, keeping a firm hold on her now to prevent any further escape attempts.*
sorry *she says, in the vague direction of the cop* I really am sorry, she just got away, I hope she hasn’t spoiled anything . .
*like what? . . she doesn’t really know what to say*
*For her part, now there’s a distance between them, Anya is giving Alek the eye . . and finally, pokes her tongue out as a parting gesture before turning away*
[Izzy Montoya] She hopes she didn’t spoil anything. Izzy shakes her head. “Not this time. Better not be a fuckin’ next time on my watch.” It’s said as much to the kid as to her mother, though it’s likely to happen again. Some never learn. Some might suggest Izzy was very much the same way half a lifetime ago, though doing so out loud would only be met with another smirk.
Irene speaks, and Izzy rolls her eyes. “Ain’t no reason I should have had to fuckin’ talk at all, cept that not a one of ya knows fuckin’ boundaries. Now, I know your type ain’t fuckin’ used to exactly obeyin’ the law of the land? But ya have t’make like ya fuckin’ do, so I ain’t fuckin’ pissed off when I gotta take care of your ass down the line.”
Because invariably, she will have to do exactly that. Foul mouthed or not, Izzy is very good at her job – even when it means breaking the very rules she’s taught to respect.
[Irene] As the cop rants, the blonde continues smoking her cigarette. To her credit, she does not continue to lounge against the side of the building as though she’s waiting for a bus or a friend to happen past; she stands away from the wall, puts both feet on the ground, and turns to face the trench coat-wearing detective.
The teenager’s jaw is set, and her nostrils are flared, and she has a thousand-yard stare that is rarely seen in anyone who can be said to have all of her marbles intact, but she doesn’t explode or launch into a tirade to best Izzy’s. She listens, and then she turns her head to spit a wad of saliva into the gutter.
“Fair ‘nough,” she says, and turns to walk down the sidewalk towards her sister.
[Adamidas] (got approved, changing clothes!)
[Irene] [Oh what the hell]
[Alek] There’s no decision necessary as to who exits the crime scene first. While Izzy pulls her things together, Alek saunters out the door, steps around to stand near her sister, her rage out of reach of the Fianna woman’s children.
Adamidas appears with requested sustenance. Alek grins to her younger sister, greets her with an upward lift of her chin. The cheeky youngster gives her the eye. The older teen, eldest of the trio of newcomers by a handful of months, comically widens her eyes at the child, covers her open mouth with her hand, and turns her head away.
She quirks a brow at the exchange between Irene and the Get of Fenris kinswoman. “Daughter of Fenris,” she says, heavy emphasis on a word that tastes like ash in her young mouth. There’s a darkness about her smooth youthful features, a stern look without fury. A Mother dressing down a Child. “You’d best learn some respect, lest it come back to smite your ass.”
Adamidas comes closer, and Alek turns to her little sister, eyes alight with joy and pleasure. “Adam! And tacos!” She strides forward to meet the girl with the cut cat-ear hat, reaches for the bag even as she reaches out to rest a hand on the top of the girl’s head.
[Adamidas] She straightens up, and she walks with the confidence of a girl who isn’t plastered on milk cartons all along the east coast. She looks at Irene, offering the bag to her sister.
“Chicken, beef, chicken and beef,” she clarifies, “and there’s two with sour creme. I don’t remember which of you wanted sour creme, but there you go.”
She looks at the blonde with the cigarette, she looks at the cop with the foul mouth, she looks at the woman with the children, and she looks at Alek without hers. Adamidas looks at a lot of things. There was tension in her shoulders, but the fight-or-flight instinct had yet to kick in.
[Rhian] *Rhian transfers her hold from Anya’s hood to her hand, enclosing it tightly and firmly in her own. She takes Rhys by the other hand and jerks the two of them into line with her in the manner of frustrated parents the world over.* Dewch! . . come on . . *and she attempts a threatening tone* and any more of this and there will be trouble!
[Irene] The bag of tacos is thrust Irene’s way, and the Ahroun plugs her half-smoked cigarette between her lips as she reaches out a hand to take hold of the greasy bag and unroll its top to peer inside. She squints, thoughtfully, as Adam lays out the contents: chicken, beef, chicken and beef, then rolls the top back up and hands it off to Alek, who has her hand atop the cats-ear hat of their Theurge.
“Sour cream?” she asks, the difficulty with the cop all but forgotten now that the prospect of food has become a solid, aromatic reality. “That’s that white stuff, ain’t it?”
[Izzy Montoya] A smirk. They never learn. “Respect is fuckin’ earned.” And not by simply waking up one day and destroying everything in sight. That just makes her job necessary. The fuck they teachin’ rageheads nowadays?
She slips her hand into her pocket, and tugs her keys free, then turns toward her car. Then Rhian tries to take on a threatening and frustrated tone with her kids, and Izzy stops, and crouches in front of Anya, putting her at eye level. She’s silent for a long moment and then. “You think you’re pretty bad ass, don’t ya, Kid? Got news for ya – you have quite a few years before that really happens. Next time you see tape like that an’ folks like them? Don’t barge in. Others ain’t as nice as me, and just might handcuff your ass to your mother. Or worse. Clear?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead she stands and with a nod toward the harried mother, “Ma’am.” she finishes the trip to her car, and unlocks the driver’s side door.
[Rhian] *It seems Izzy’s warning, and cop attitude has more of an effect on Anya than Alek’s approach. The kid draws closer to Rhian now, every inch a five year old scared she might actually get whisked off to a police cell. Briefly she glances up to Rhian, for reassurance, or maybe some kind of explanation . . before Rhian finally manages to get them moving off down the street*
[Adamidas] There’s a hand on top of her head that she doesn’t shake off. Instead, it’s simply a fact of life. the sky is blue, the grass is brown, and Alek has yet again used the smaller theurge as a resting place. She’s of an appropriate height for it, really.
“Yeah,” she offers, “it’s the white stuff, kind of like yogurt only not. If you want more, there’s little cups of it, but you’d have to go back and get it from th’tacoplace.”
She is content to be with her sisters instead of, well, paying attetion to the cop. She wasn’t making a big scene or trying to draw too much attention to herself.
“I hope Chicago’s got good food, that’s all I have to say on that.”
[Alek] A voice behind her is giving a lecture. Alek waves a hand dismissively in the direction of the cop, her attention focused on the bag of tacos and inhaling the aroma of its contents.
“Yes, and it’s the motherfucking nectar of the gods, man. Sour cream makes the world go round, or something. Heeee,” she sighs, all but dancing from foot to food as she rolls the top of the paper bag closed.
“We passed a park a little ways back, we should go there and eat.”