[Imogen] The pub is small and narrow, dark wood and close booths. There are men sitting at the bar whom Imogen sees every time she comes here, which is rarely.
She's not really known here; the waitress has tried to engage her in conversation and been casually, though politely, rebuffed.
The kinswoman sits, a pint glass in hand, at a booth, her spine straight, her legs crossed at the knee. She is dressed still in her business attire, slacks and a blouse, just visible between the part of her jacket, which she has kept on despite the warmth of the bar.
There is no meal in front of her, she has an open file folder, absently working through the contents, a pen in hand, her head bent, several strands of hair - released from a clip at the nape of her neck, brushing the paper.
[Kora] "I think it's this one - " Kora says, squinting up through the spiraling snowflakes at the sign above the door frame. The weather has taken a turn for the arctic. The few snowflakes are meager things, a sort of spindrift squeezed out of the air by the bitter cold. The pub is small enough - old enough - that they've not yet installed double-doors, so the patrons nearest the front door brace themselves every time it swings open.
Kora holds it open behind her just long enough for Roman to slip in behind her, then reaches back and pushes it firmly shut. It's the action of someone used to small homes in cold climates, the cultural compact of the north. Don't let the cold in. Don't let the heat out.
The full moon is a hidden away behind the quilted gray clouds, but they can still feel it the way the ocean does - the gravity of the moon, the movement through the sky, that restlessness under the skin. Just inside, Kora stamps snow from her boots, squinting against the sudden darkness of the narrow space as she starts to tug off her gloves.
"There's the doc - " she tells Roman. "Go on. You want a beer?" asked, over her shoulder as she plots a course toward the bar for drinks before she joints them.
[Roman Turner] He blew in behind Kora and like her, stomped his feet as he blew in to his hands, warming them with his breath. Hat removed, because his folks taught him that, he nodded.
"I see her. Beer would be great, thanks."
Kora was his booze connection, without her he was stuck with soft drinks since Sparrow and and left him in the city. Still feeling like his butt was permanently frozen, he headed towards Imogen to nod to her when he got close enough.
"Howdy, mind if I sit?"
[Imogen] Imogen looks up as Roman approaches, her gaze touching upon the Gaian, then moving beyond him to scan the room until she catches sight of Kora at the bar.
"Go ahead." She tilts her head toward the booth opposite her, one hand flipping closed the file folder, and starting to slide it into the brief case by her side.
"Cold, isn't it just?" she says, glancing at him, her head still half turned toward her brief case, rummaging.
[Roman Turner] "Colder than a Witch's ti..er...time piece."
He amended quickly as he shrugged off his coat and slid in to the booth.
"You work a lot, don't you?"
Nodding towards her briefcase.
[Kora] Kora nudges one of the barstools out of the way with her booted foot, then sidles up to the bar, stuffing her gloves into her pockets. The bartender is engaged in a extended discussion of the upcoming Bears-Packers playoff game with the regulars, and accordingly ignoring her.
Maybe it's the moon.
Maybe it's her rage.
Maybe it's the playoffs.
He ignores her so steadily that she has to rap her bare knuckles sharply against the bar to get his attention, and wait, unwinding her scarf, as he extricates himself from the animated conversation. Several minutes later, Kora follows in Roman's wake down the narrow aisle between the wall of booths and the long wooden bar. Beer in one hand, soda in the other.
"Hey doc," she says as she joins them, setting first one drink, then the other down on the table. A lift of her chin back toward the bar, with an eye towards the kinswoman's drink. "You need a refill before I sit down?" She's already unbuttoning her coat, deft fingers working quickly.
[Roman Turner] He had been aware of Kora's position and with their connection, her tension came down the wire to tickle even his calm temperament. For a moment the thought of causing havoc raced through his system as he considered getting even with the bartender by overflowing his toilet or something equally annoying.
"Thank you."
He grimly saluted Kora with the beer and proceeded to gulp down a big mouthful just to give himself time to think before acting.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists. "Time piece, is it?" He mentions she works a lot, and in answer, she simply nods. "I do." A statement of fact without excuse or elaboration.
From the brief case she draws out a paper sized envelope, glancing up as Kora returns.
"No, I'm alright, thank you." The pint glass is only half empty.
"So," she says without small talk or niceties, "Th'place Drew went to was owned by a company called ETA Property Management. S'a small company that's been around since oh-seven or so. They own several properties, mostly bought up in auctions and short sales - basically, houses tha' the banks ha' repossessed and the like. Most o' them are rental properties."
A few newspaper clips and sheets of paper are brought out of the envelope and laid on the table. There is nothing significant within them, other than a less concise break down of the details. A few buildings where their purchases were traced backwards. A newspaper clipping from some classified.
Then a sheet of paper which has a map of Chicago, or at least part of it, with areas marked out in highlighter.
"They own buildings throughout Bronzeville, fer the most part, in shoddy neighbourhoods. I checked out a few places," a flick of her dark-eyed gaze toward Kora. "We've been there before. Th'place wi' the cannibalistic children."
[Kora] Kora tucks her body into the bench seat of the booth next to Roman, opposite Imogen, with a modicum of greater care than she might normally give to such an easy motion. It isn't necessary yet; she's not unwieldy, she won't be for another month or two or three. Still, she's aware of a difference in her body, in her center of gravity, not fully comfortable with the change - though it comes out only in moments like this, when she tucks herself into the bench seat.
And listens, pulling her own soda over the scarred wooden tabletop, lacing her hands around the cool glass. The creature's dark eye touch on Imogen's face; but as the kinswoman offers up her information, explaining the details, Kora searches over the scraps from her file of information. Briefly, she frowns, reaching out to tease out a few of the other maps, the other neighborhoods, fanned in the file.
"Have you heard this story?" she says to Roman, without looking at him, though she lifts her chin and cuts a glance back to him a moment later. Her eyes are sober, as is the meager curve of her mouth. "I'd never seen anything like it. The mother was - not changed, near as I could tell, but the kids. A teenager, a toddler. Both cursed." She finishes, without a sharp outward breath that makes her nostrils flare.
"That's a bit too much coincidence for me, Doc." The sober curve stills; Imogen is reflected in the Skald's dark eyes. The color is lost here in the shadows of the pub, but they shine where the light reflects. Still watering from the cold, though the bright pink in her cheeks, at the tip of her nose has faded by now. They're both pale-skinned women. Imogen seems translucent, like porcelain. Kora - solid, like packed snow washed by a winter sun.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists, a thin line. "My thought exactly."
[Roman Turner] "Three years of buying up places. Sounds like they have roots set down pretty good."
He shook his head sending a drift of chestnut colored hair across his brow.
"I don't think I heard nothing of cannibal kids."
[Roman Turner] "I do have a question though."
He was frowning in thought.
"Well two questions. How come they didn't eat their Ma? And what happened to the bunch of them?"
[Imogen] Imogen spreads the several papers of printed out parts of Chicago, buildings highlighted. "They ha' buildings throughout th'city. Twenty or so properties in Bronzeville, about ten in Cabrini Green, and maybe a handful in the suburbs where the areas are rundown. They're all rather nasty areas. What's most interesting is in Bronzeville," she pushes that one forward to the two Garou, a slender finger tapping an area conspicuously void of markings.
"They haven't got anything in this neighbourhood," she says. "I checked it out. It has community policing and a dropping crime rate. The only one in the area."
Roman has two questions. Imogen's gaze moves toward him, her gaze impenetrable. "The mother was feeding them flesh," she says, succinctly. "They were all killed."
[Kora] "It was before you and Sparrow came to Chicago," Kora says, low-voiced. " - maybe a moon after I came." There's something grim there; memory like a scouring sand. Then she breathes out again, cuts a direct look at Imogen. "They were beyond help. The doc and I killed them."
Her soda, untouched, hisses and pops with escaped carbonation. The glass is slick, the dry heat draws out the moisture - or maybe it was still wet from the dish washer when it was served to her. Still, there's damp on the table, damp on her hands. A glance back up, as Imogen indicates - a small area in Bronzeville. "Can I get copies of these maps? Maybe a couple of copies - "
[Roman Turner] "Oh nasty."
The face he made was the same one he made when he slipped and fell in a fresh cow patty once. He leaned in to look at the maps as Imogen indicated the odd little no trouble zone.
"There a pack in that area?"
[Kora] "I dunno," returns Kora, with a brief shake of her pale head and an arching of pale brows. "That Gnawer packed with Joey says they claim territory down there. Might give him a visit and find out."
[Imogen] "Yeh can keep these," she says. "I have originals back at the condo, and another version o' this map. I'll make yeh copies."
A glance at Kora as she speaks. "Hunter, is it?" she asks. "Spoke wi' him a few days ago before I'd started to work this all out. He's asked I get in touch wi' him about anythin' in Bronzeville." The next statement is off-hand, almost. "I've agreed."
[Roman Turner] "Who's Hunter?"
He looked back and forth between the two women.
[Roman Turner] He figured he would find out who Hunter was later. Right then he had something more important to tend to.
"Er, excuse me."
He rose and made a b-line for the restrooms.
[Roman Turner] ((Thanks guys, I must sleep))
[Kora] Off-hand. Almost.
Still, there's a certain sharpening of Kora's regard, a certain keenness as her eyes narrow briefly on Imogen's face; a certain tension that betrays itself in the flatness of her lower lip. A brief sense of - coiling - the best of her spine, the way she squares her narrow shoulders beneath the layers of half-zipped hoodie and t-shirt and thermal.
Then it's broken; Roman has to make a b-line for the restroom, climbing over Kora. She turns, half-rising before he climbs over her and she cuts a glance to follow in his wake. When she turns back, whatever animal thing - (territorial) rose up inside her has been swallowed down, subsumed underneath her skin, mastered. "Let me know when you're meeting with him," Kora says, her voice even, the request almost-casual.
"On this," her dark eyes drop to the clippings scattered over the table. A certain distinction there. "I'd like to be there." Then she lifts her chin toward the other half of the table; the map of Bronzeville, the properties marked out on the paper. "If you go back to check that place out, Doc. Take Roman with you, yeah?"
[Izzy Montoya] Some say there is no such thing as a coincidence, which very well may be. So it is fate, or destiny, or simply the desire for a hot meal and beer on the go between calls, between meetings... between. Whatever it is (and once can be 99.9% sure it's the later), it has one Detective Izzy Montoya slipping through the open door. She pauses just inside as the door closes behind her to peel off her gloves, and let her eyes adjust to the interior light.
She tucks her gloves away into her pocket, and makes her way toward the bar as she unbuttons her coat. Soft, supple leather it is, and it clings just right to make her look curvier than she is and hide the holster at the small of her back. Functional and fabulous - though what's underneath is her natural everyday fair - business casual slacks and blouse - the former black, the latter a soft pink that is decidedly more girly than she's ever claimed to be. It does, however, set off her coloring nicely...
[Imogen] Imogen only nods - there is no suggestion of resistance.
"I thought yeh might," she says.
"After you, he's next. Tomorrow, maybe?" a glance at her watch as she begins to gather the papers. "I ha' to get back to work tonight."
[Kora] "Tomorrow works, Doc," Kora returns, her generous mouth quirking upward at the corner. "Gimme a call."
There's a moment where her features smooth over, going not-quite-blank with a thought passed between packmates. That's familiar to Imogen, that considered, far-away look. It resolves as she sits forward again, the twist of her mouth deepening briefly. "Roman says goodnight. I'm not calling you Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am, though. Not for love or money."
The pub is long, dark and narrow. Imogen and Kora are seated at a booth well away from the front door, where absolutely arctic air washes in everytime the door swings open and another patron walks in. The place is far from full; there's just one television over the bar, tuned to SportsCenter. Kora looks up every time the front door opens, a sharp-eyed glance that misses little. "This some sort of cop bar?" she asks Imogen as she pulls together her papers, lifting a chin in Izzy's direction.
[Izzy Montoya] She picks the area of the bar where she, too, can watch the door. It's training, it's automatic, its...
...oh. Over there. It's Kora and Imogen.
A sweep of dark eyes through the dark bar pick out the familiar faces, as she slips out of her coat, and sets it across a barstool. She lifts her chin just a touch in hello, before she turns to the bartender, intending on getting his attention. When he pulls himself away from SportsCenter, she orders a sandwich and beer, and drops the bills to pay for it on the bar.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth moves in a faint smirk. "Will do." She pushes the envelope over to Kora. "Keep it. I'll bring yeh more copies tomorrow."
Kora passes on Roman's message and Imogen's mouth twists further, "I appreciate that. Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am is rather tedious, I think."
The redhaired woman turns her head to look in the direction Kora indicates, "No, not really. S'irish though, so." A thin smirk, "s'the right atmosphere I suppose."
[Kora] "Thanks, Doc - " Kora returns, reaching out to accept the envelope with the maps tucked away inside it. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"
After a moment's fiddling, she has it half-rolled and tucked away in the pouch-pocket of on the front of her half-zipped hoodie. Then Imogen smirks her appreciation and Kora - laughs, brief, nostrils flaring, a rough burst of air propelled by her diaphragm. The hint of laughter lingers in her dark eyes - a certain light there.
"Trust me," returns Kora, with a fervency that is clearly heartfelt. " - I understand." She has been called Miss more in the past half-year than she had ever before. "Makes me miss the simpler days of Góðan daginn Kora Eyjólfsdóttir. " Her accent is keen, even after more than a year's absence. Inside the brackets of the foreign words, her non-Germanic name sounds changed, alien.
Izzy enters, sees them, and offers a touch of hello with a faint lift of her chin. Kora returns the gesture, rather more directly, lifting her soda in subtle toast. At the same time, she's reaching for her things, pulling out a dollar or two by way of tip.
[Izzy Montoya] She makes her order, and then gathers her coat, and heads toward the table where Kora and Imogen both are getting ready to go.
"Do you have a moment?" Simple, and direct.
[Imogen] "Yeah," Imogen echoes. She will see Kora tomorrow.
She's getting to her feet, when Izzy approaches and addresses them both. Imogen sets her brief case on the table's edge, before nodding slightly. Her hand snakes around the case to retrieve her beer, taking advantage of the moment to finish her beer.
[Kora] "Sure, Detective." Kora has not yet risen; she looks up at the kinswoman, a brush of dark eyes across her features, a brief flicker down, at the pink blouse beneath the severe black leather blazer. " - you want to have a seat?" Both acknowledgment and invitation.
[Izzy Montoya] "I won't take much of your time." She knows, more than most, how busy Imogen is, and she and tend to discuss what needs discussing, then carry on about their business. There is precious little socializing. She does, however, take a seat. All the better to get off the ankle she refuses to favor.
"There's a body in your morgue, on the way or there already, from an alley dumpster in the Green. I know what killed her - but I don't know what the autopsy will conclude. If you could check it out, I'd appreciate it. She worked at the Bead Barn next to the alley she was killed in. I was able to get remains of the beads that were apparently mutant maggot shells. They're in my trunk if you'd like to relieve me of them." That's as close to a prettypleasegetthefuckingthingsawayfromme as she'll get right now.
"I'll do some digging to see where they came from, but as most fucked up things, I suspect simply 'north'." It's said with a wry smirk, as she drags her fingers through her hair, and lets it fall again.
"I've covered it from my end - just need the COD to be something normal. I was able to kill all of them, and stop their..." here, her mouth twists into a smirk that's almost amused "stampede... before the others arrived."
[Imogen] A line forms between the kinswoman's eyebrows. "The maggots are what killed her, is it?"
[Kora] Kora sits across from Izzy, listening to the bare bones of the detective's story. She looks up - this sharp, sweeping glance from the side - when Imogen asks her question, waits a beat to allow Izzy to answer, and then appends, in her quiet alto -
"I'd like to know more precisely where this was, Detective. Come by the church the first day you have off and walk me past there, yeah?" She lifts her chin, then, her generous mouth twisting into a thoughtful frown. "- you okay?"
[Izzy Montoya] She nods. "Yeah. Killed her, the dog that was going after them, and came after me. I fuckin' burned them."
Well. Shot a highly flammable butane torch so that it exploded and burned them. It sucks when the enemy is too small for a bullet, but she's nothing if not creative under pressure. Kora adds her request, and Izzy nods. "Day after tomorrow is the first I'm supposed to have off." She doesn't say that it's likely not going to happen - it never does. "I'll swing by as soon as I have a few moments." Then, a brief huff of breath, amused, as she nods. "Yeah. I don't think I was bit or anything, but they did their damndest. Had to burn them off my leg before they could dig in."
She set her own damn leg on fire, ladies and gents. If that ain't proof of Fenrir blood, nothing is...
"Unfortunately, the police arrived before I could get the body away." What she doesn't say is that it took some fancy footwork and a break-in to the health food place next door. Or that she had to spin a tale that was believable to the officers that responded on scene, and that she didn't mention the body until they found it, so that it could fall right back into her jurisdiction, and allow her to spin the story however needed. She doesn't say it, though it can be assumed. She is, after all, VERY good at her job.
[Kora] Izzy refuses to favor her leg; there's a moment there where the Skald just studies her, quiet. The sharp lines of her face softened by the curve of her mouth, by the way light reflects across her eyes. "If you're badly injured, let Roman know," Kora says, sliding up, standing, retrieving her winter things. "Otherwise, I'll see you in a couple of days. Thanks for the heads up."
Then: "Gimme a ride, doc?" as she's pulling on her coat, winding her scarf around her throat.
She's not really known here; the waitress has tried to engage her in conversation and been casually, though politely, rebuffed.
The kinswoman sits, a pint glass in hand, at a booth, her spine straight, her legs crossed at the knee. She is dressed still in her business attire, slacks and a blouse, just visible between the part of her jacket, which she has kept on despite the warmth of the bar.
There is no meal in front of her, she has an open file folder, absently working through the contents, a pen in hand, her head bent, several strands of hair - released from a clip at the nape of her neck, brushing the paper.
[Kora] "I think it's this one - " Kora says, squinting up through the spiraling snowflakes at the sign above the door frame. The weather has taken a turn for the arctic. The few snowflakes are meager things, a sort of spindrift squeezed out of the air by the bitter cold. The pub is small enough - old enough - that they've not yet installed double-doors, so the patrons nearest the front door brace themselves every time it swings open.
Kora holds it open behind her just long enough for Roman to slip in behind her, then reaches back and pushes it firmly shut. It's the action of someone used to small homes in cold climates, the cultural compact of the north. Don't let the cold in. Don't let the heat out.
The full moon is a hidden away behind the quilted gray clouds, but they can still feel it the way the ocean does - the gravity of the moon, the movement through the sky, that restlessness under the skin. Just inside, Kora stamps snow from her boots, squinting against the sudden darkness of the narrow space as she starts to tug off her gloves.
"There's the doc - " she tells Roman. "Go on. You want a beer?" asked, over her shoulder as she plots a course toward the bar for drinks before she joints them.
[Roman Turner] He blew in behind Kora and like her, stomped his feet as he blew in to his hands, warming them with his breath. Hat removed, because his folks taught him that, he nodded.
"I see her. Beer would be great, thanks."
Kora was his booze connection, without her he was stuck with soft drinks since Sparrow and and left him in the city. Still feeling like his butt was permanently frozen, he headed towards Imogen to nod to her when he got close enough.
"Howdy, mind if I sit?"
[Imogen] Imogen looks up as Roman approaches, her gaze touching upon the Gaian, then moving beyond him to scan the room until she catches sight of Kora at the bar.
"Go ahead." She tilts her head toward the booth opposite her, one hand flipping closed the file folder, and starting to slide it into the brief case by her side.
"Cold, isn't it just?" she says, glancing at him, her head still half turned toward her brief case, rummaging.
[Roman Turner] "Colder than a Witch's ti..er...time piece."
He amended quickly as he shrugged off his coat and slid in to the booth.
"You work a lot, don't you?"
Nodding towards her briefcase.
[Kora] Kora nudges one of the barstools out of the way with her booted foot, then sidles up to the bar, stuffing her gloves into her pockets. The bartender is engaged in a extended discussion of the upcoming Bears-Packers playoff game with the regulars, and accordingly ignoring her.
Maybe it's the moon.
Maybe it's her rage.
Maybe it's the playoffs.
He ignores her so steadily that she has to rap her bare knuckles sharply against the bar to get his attention, and wait, unwinding her scarf, as he extricates himself from the animated conversation. Several minutes later, Kora follows in Roman's wake down the narrow aisle between the wall of booths and the long wooden bar. Beer in one hand, soda in the other.
"Hey doc," she says as she joins them, setting first one drink, then the other down on the table. A lift of her chin back toward the bar, with an eye towards the kinswoman's drink. "You need a refill before I sit down?" She's already unbuttoning her coat, deft fingers working quickly.
[Roman Turner] He had been aware of Kora's position and with their connection, her tension came down the wire to tickle even his calm temperament. For a moment the thought of causing havoc raced through his system as he considered getting even with the bartender by overflowing his toilet or something equally annoying.
"Thank you."
He grimly saluted Kora with the beer and proceeded to gulp down a big mouthful just to give himself time to think before acting.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists. "Time piece, is it?" He mentions she works a lot, and in answer, she simply nods. "I do." A statement of fact without excuse or elaboration.
From the brief case she draws out a paper sized envelope, glancing up as Kora returns.
"No, I'm alright, thank you." The pint glass is only half empty.
"So," she says without small talk or niceties, "Th'place Drew went to was owned by a company called ETA Property Management. S'a small company that's been around since oh-seven or so. They own several properties, mostly bought up in auctions and short sales - basically, houses tha' the banks ha' repossessed and the like. Most o' them are rental properties."
A few newspaper clips and sheets of paper are brought out of the envelope and laid on the table. There is nothing significant within them, other than a less concise break down of the details. A few buildings where their purchases were traced backwards. A newspaper clipping from some classified.
Then a sheet of paper which has a map of Chicago, or at least part of it, with areas marked out in highlighter.
"They own buildings throughout Bronzeville, fer the most part, in shoddy neighbourhoods. I checked out a few places," a flick of her dark-eyed gaze toward Kora. "We've been there before. Th'place wi' the cannibalistic children."
[Kora] Kora tucks her body into the bench seat of the booth next to Roman, opposite Imogen, with a modicum of greater care than she might normally give to such an easy motion. It isn't necessary yet; she's not unwieldy, she won't be for another month or two or three. Still, she's aware of a difference in her body, in her center of gravity, not fully comfortable with the change - though it comes out only in moments like this, when she tucks herself into the bench seat.
And listens, pulling her own soda over the scarred wooden tabletop, lacing her hands around the cool glass. The creature's dark eye touch on Imogen's face; but as the kinswoman offers up her information, explaining the details, Kora searches over the scraps from her file of information. Briefly, she frowns, reaching out to tease out a few of the other maps, the other neighborhoods, fanned in the file.
"Have you heard this story?" she says to Roman, without looking at him, though she lifts her chin and cuts a glance back to him a moment later. Her eyes are sober, as is the meager curve of her mouth. "I'd never seen anything like it. The mother was - not changed, near as I could tell, but the kids. A teenager, a toddler. Both cursed." She finishes, without a sharp outward breath that makes her nostrils flare.
"That's a bit too much coincidence for me, Doc." The sober curve stills; Imogen is reflected in the Skald's dark eyes. The color is lost here in the shadows of the pub, but they shine where the light reflects. Still watering from the cold, though the bright pink in her cheeks, at the tip of her nose has faded by now. They're both pale-skinned women. Imogen seems translucent, like porcelain. Kora - solid, like packed snow washed by a winter sun.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth twists, a thin line. "My thought exactly."
[Roman Turner] "Three years of buying up places. Sounds like they have roots set down pretty good."
He shook his head sending a drift of chestnut colored hair across his brow.
"I don't think I heard nothing of cannibal kids."
[Roman Turner] "I do have a question though."
He was frowning in thought.
"Well two questions. How come they didn't eat their Ma? And what happened to the bunch of them?"
[Imogen] Imogen spreads the several papers of printed out parts of Chicago, buildings highlighted. "They ha' buildings throughout th'city. Twenty or so properties in Bronzeville, about ten in Cabrini Green, and maybe a handful in the suburbs where the areas are rundown. They're all rather nasty areas. What's most interesting is in Bronzeville," she pushes that one forward to the two Garou, a slender finger tapping an area conspicuously void of markings.
"They haven't got anything in this neighbourhood," she says. "I checked it out. It has community policing and a dropping crime rate. The only one in the area."
Roman has two questions. Imogen's gaze moves toward him, her gaze impenetrable. "The mother was feeding them flesh," she says, succinctly. "They were all killed."
[Kora] "It was before you and Sparrow came to Chicago," Kora says, low-voiced. " - maybe a moon after I came." There's something grim there; memory like a scouring sand. Then she breathes out again, cuts a direct look at Imogen. "They were beyond help. The doc and I killed them."
Her soda, untouched, hisses and pops with escaped carbonation. The glass is slick, the dry heat draws out the moisture - or maybe it was still wet from the dish washer when it was served to her. Still, there's damp on the table, damp on her hands. A glance back up, as Imogen indicates - a small area in Bronzeville. "Can I get copies of these maps? Maybe a couple of copies - "
[Roman Turner] "Oh nasty."
The face he made was the same one he made when he slipped and fell in a fresh cow patty once. He leaned in to look at the maps as Imogen indicated the odd little no trouble zone.
"There a pack in that area?"
[Kora] "I dunno," returns Kora, with a brief shake of her pale head and an arching of pale brows. "That Gnawer packed with Joey says they claim territory down there. Might give him a visit and find out."
[Imogen] "Yeh can keep these," she says. "I have originals back at the condo, and another version o' this map. I'll make yeh copies."
A glance at Kora as she speaks. "Hunter, is it?" she asks. "Spoke wi' him a few days ago before I'd started to work this all out. He's asked I get in touch wi' him about anythin' in Bronzeville." The next statement is off-hand, almost. "I've agreed."
[Roman Turner] "Who's Hunter?"
He looked back and forth between the two women.
[Roman Turner] He figured he would find out who Hunter was later. Right then he had something more important to tend to.
"Er, excuse me."
He rose and made a b-line for the restrooms.
[Roman Turner] ((Thanks guys, I must sleep))
[Kora] Off-hand. Almost.
Still, there's a certain sharpening of Kora's regard, a certain keenness as her eyes narrow briefly on Imogen's face; a certain tension that betrays itself in the flatness of her lower lip. A brief sense of - coiling - the best of her spine, the way she squares her narrow shoulders beneath the layers of half-zipped hoodie and t-shirt and thermal.
Then it's broken; Roman has to make a b-line for the restroom, climbing over Kora. She turns, half-rising before he climbs over her and she cuts a glance to follow in his wake. When she turns back, whatever animal thing - (territorial) rose up inside her has been swallowed down, subsumed underneath her skin, mastered. "Let me know when you're meeting with him," Kora says, her voice even, the request almost-casual.
"On this," her dark eyes drop to the clippings scattered over the table. A certain distinction there. "I'd like to be there." Then she lifts her chin toward the other half of the table; the map of Bronzeville, the properties marked out on the paper. "If you go back to check that place out, Doc. Take Roman with you, yeah?"
[Izzy Montoya] Some say there is no such thing as a coincidence, which very well may be. So it is fate, or destiny, or simply the desire for a hot meal and beer on the go between calls, between meetings... between. Whatever it is (and once can be 99.9% sure it's the later), it has one Detective Izzy Montoya slipping through the open door. She pauses just inside as the door closes behind her to peel off her gloves, and let her eyes adjust to the interior light.
She tucks her gloves away into her pocket, and makes her way toward the bar as she unbuttons her coat. Soft, supple leather it is, and it clings just right to make her look curvier than she is and hide the holster at the small of her back. Functional and fabulous - though what's underneath is her natural everyday fair - business casual slacks and blouse - the former black, the latter a soft pink that is decidedly more girly than she's ever claimed to be. It does, however, set off her coloring nicely...
[Imogen] Imogen only nods - there is no suggestion of resistance.
"I thought yeh might," she says.
"After you, he's next. Tomorrow, maybe?" a glance at her watch as she begins to gather the papers. "I ha' to get back to work tonight."
[Kora] "Tomorrow works, Doc," Kora returns, her generous mouth quirking upward at the corner. "Gimme a call."
There's a moment where her features smooth over, going not-quite-blank with a thought passed between packmates. That's familiar to Imogen, that considered, far-away look. It resolves as she sits forward again, the twist of her mouth deepening briefly. "Roman says goodnight. I'm not calling you Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am, though. Not for love or money."
The pub is long, dark and narrow. Imogen and Kora are seated at a booth well away from the front door, where absolutely arctic air washes in everytime the door swings open and another patron walks in. The place is far from full; there's just one television over the bar, tuned to SportsCenter. Kora looks up every time the front door opens, a sharp-eyed glance that misses little. "This some sort of cop bar?" she asks Imogen as she pulls together her papers, lifting a chin in Izzy's direction.
[Izzy Montoya] She picks the area of the bar where she, too, can watch the door. It's training, it's automatic, its...
...oh. Over there. It's Kora and Imogen.
A sweep of dark eyes through the dark bar pick out the familiar faces, as she slips out of her coat, and sets it across a barstool. She lifts her chin just a touch in hello, before she turns to the bartender, intending on getting his attention. When he pulls himself away from SportsCenter, she orders a sandwich and beer, and drops the bills to pay for it on the bar.
[Imogen] Imogen's mouth moves in a faint smirk. "Will do." She pushes the envelope over to Kora. "Keep it. I'll bring yeh more copies tomorrow."
Kora passes on Roman's message and Imogen's mouth twists further, "I appreciate that. Miss Doctor Slaughter Ma'am is rather tedious, I think."
The redhaired woman turns her head to look in the direction Kora indicates, "No, not really. S'irish though, so." A thin smirk, "s'the right atmosphere I suppose."
[Kora] "Thanks, Doc - " Kora returns, reaching out to accept the envelope with the maps tucked away inside it. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"
After a moment's fiddling, she has it half-rolled and tucked away in the pouch-pocket of on the front of her half-zipped hoodie. Then Imogen smirks her appreciation and Kora - laughs, brief, nostrils flaring, a rough burst of air propelled by her diaphragm. The hint of laughter lingers in her dark eyes - a certain light there.
"Trust me," returns Kora, with a fervency that is clearly heartfelt. " - I understand." She has been called Miss more in the past half-year than she had ever before. "Makes me miss the simpler days of Góðan daginn Kora Eyjólfsdóttir. " Her accent is keen, even after more than a year's absence. Inside the brackets of the foreign words, her non-Germanic name sounds changed, alien.
Izzy enters, sees them, and offers a touch of hello with a faint lift of her chin. Kora returns the gesture, rather more directly, lifting her soda in subtle toast. At the same time, she's reaching for her things, pulling out a dollar or two by way of tip.
[Izzy Montoya] She makes her order, and then gathers her coat, and heads toward the table where Kora and Imogen both are getting ready to go.
"Do you have a moment?" Simple, and direct.
[Imogen] "Yeah," Imogen echoes. She will see Kora tomorrow.
She's getting to her feet, when Izzy approaches and addresses them both. Imogen sets her brief case on the table's edge, before nodding slightly. Her hand snakes around the case to retrieve her beer, taking advantage of the moment to finish her beer.
[Kora] "Sure, Detective." Kora has not yet risen; she looks up at the kinswoman, a brush of dark eyes across her features, a brief flicker down, at the pink blouse beneath the severe black leather blazer. " - you want to have a seat?" Both acknowledgment and invitation.
[Izzy Montoya] "I won't take much of your time." She knows, more than most, how busy Imogen is, and she and tend to discuss what needs discussing, then carry on about their business. There is precious little socializing. She does, however, take a seat. All the better to get off the ankle she refuses to favor.
"There's a body in your morgue, on the way or there already, from an alley dumpster in the Green. I know what killed her - but I don't know what the autopsy will conclude. If you could check it out, I'd appreciate it. She worked at the Bead Barn next to the alley she was killed in. I was able to get remains of the beads that were apparently mutant maggot shells. They're in my trunk if you'd like to relieve me of them." That's as close to a prettypleasegetthefuckingthingsawayfromme as she'll get right now.
"I'll do some digging to see where they came from, but as most fucked up things, I suspect simply 'north'." It's said with a wry smirk, as she drags her fingers through her hair, and lets it fall again.
"I've covered it from my end - just need the COD to be something normal. I was able to kill all of them, and stop their..." here, her mouth twists into a smirk that's almost amused "stampede... before the others arrived."
[Imogen] A line forms between the kinswoman's eyebrows. "The maggots are what killed her, is it?"
[Kora] Kora sits across from Izzy, listening to the bare bones of the detective's story. She looks up - this sharp, sweeping glance from the side - when Imogen asks her question, waits a beat to allow Izzy to answer, and then appends, in her quiet alto -
"I'd like to know more precisely where this was, Detective. Come by the church the first day you have off and walk me past there, yeah?" She lifts her chin, then, her generous mouth twisting into a thoughtful frown. "- you okay?"
[Izzy Montoya] She nods. "Yeah. Killed her, the dog that was going after them, and came after me. I fuckin' burned them."
Well. Shot a highly flammable butane torch so that it exploded and burned them. It sucks when the enemy is too small for a bullet, but she's nothing if not creative under pressure. Kora adds her request, and Izzy nods. "Day after tomorrow is the first I'm supposed to have off." She doesn't say that it's likely not going to happen - it never does. "I'll swing by as soon as I have a few moments." Then, a brief huff of breath, amused, as she nods. "Yeah. I don't think I was bit or anything, but they did their damndest. Had to burn them off my leg before they could dig in."
She set her own damn leg on fire, ladies and gents. If that ain't proof of Fenrir blood, nothing is...
"Unfortunately, the police arrived before I could get the body away." What she doesn't say is that it took some fancy footwork and a break-in to the health food place next door. Or that she had to spin a tale that was believable to the officers that responded on scene, and that she didn't mention the body until they found it, so that it could fall right back into her jurisdiction, and allow her to spin the story however needed. She doesn't say it, though it can be assumed. She is, after all, VERY good at her job.
[Kora] Izzy refuses to favor her leg; there's a moment there where the Skald just studies her, quiet. The sharp lines of her face softened by the curve of her mouth, by the way light reflects across her eyes. "If you're badly injured, let Roman know," Kora says, sliding up, standing, retrieving her winter things. "Otherwise, I'll see you in a couple of days. Thanks for the heads up."
Then: "Gimme a ride, doc?" as she's pulling on her coat, winding her scarf around her throat.
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