[Cordelia] Cordelia spent a fair chunk of her day trying to make her apartment look lived in, and then trying to make the lived in apartment look like it had been immaculately cleaned by someone who was not Cordelia. It's inordinately difficult to lie to a Philodox. Breeding or not, she had several things to contend with when it came to fooling Inez. Their history was one thing; Inez knew Cordelia. Backwards, forwards, sidewards, slantwards, and every other whichwards in between. They have history. Twenty-two years worth of history.
Inez knows her tricks.
Inez can, does, and will call bullshit.
No, Cordelia has to play this just right or else all of her cavorting and such will be for naught. While her parents couldn't be bothered to give two fucks about what she did in the United States (She's getting it out of her system), Inez more-than-likely did give a shit about what Cordelia did.
So. Out the food went. In came other food. Out went parts of the food, down her garbage disposal to give the illusion that she'd actually eaten it. Cordelia spent the better part of her day dropping triscuits down the drain and listeing to them get eaten alive and whisked away.
This was going to be a long day.
---
December 24th.
-----
"¿A quién vas a salir con esta noche?" Inez asked. She leaned against the wall in the bathroom. Her arms are folded low. There's a ragabash draped over Cordelia's sofa in the living room, and a theurge rummaging through the kitchen. Two young, unfamiliar ahrouns pour over a map. They're a sordid bunch. A Shadow Lord. Two Silver Fangs. A couple Fianna. Cordelia knows which faces are missing, and who has replaced them.
"A friend," she replies.
"Girlfriend or boyfriend."
"Just a friend."
"Sería madre como él?"
"No," she laughs, "Mamá no tiene que cumplir con todos mis amigos."
"Mamá no le gustaba tu última novia tampoco."
Cordelia rolls her eyes and finishes putting her lipgloss on. Inez just laughs.
----
The blonde stork takes a cab to get to the pre-arranged location for drinks. Post-holiday drinks with Ivan Press. She no doubt guessed that there would be about a billion people out for the holidays, trying to get as shithoused as possible so that they too could deal with their in-laws and visiting family members. All in all, this was the way she was intending on dealing with the pack that was taking up her living room right now. With lots and lots and lots of booze and possibly being distracted by it all. They were here on business- her living room was a war room. Maps and plans and discussion of where to move next-
Because it was never just a visit with them.
It isn't important, though, because she shows up at the rather trendy, oh-so-nameless, oh-so-packed little bar-that-has-dancing-and-occasionally-someone-gets-topless-and-no-one-cares. Such is the benefit of bars and nightclubs. It's the holidays.
She shows up in a black shirt and a white top. Something with a high thread count and a higher price tag that does wonders to hide the fact that Cordelia really doesn't have a lot in the way of cleavage. The skirt's shortish though. Or maybe it's the fact that she has long legs. The skirt's tighter than she remembers it being when she bought it. Silently, she curses American food. She's acquired other glasses, but realistically these frames seem to scream vintage librarian instead of utter dweeb.. She wonders if she beat Ivan here.
----
There's a dead hooker hanging halfway out of the dumpster between the bar and the little-known, less-cared-about establishment beside it. Who knows how long she's actually been there. Who knows what her name is. The determination, however, is that she's been there for close to three hours and got noticed by a club-goer/post-Christmas-shopper noticed her. The crowds ebb and flow. Who knows when the cops are going to show up, or maybe that security guard is just going to stand there all night and guard a forgotten body.
Noble deed.
Cold night.
Kindred spirit- no one remembered his name either.
----
This is where we open our scene- with a posh little place full of people and well bred someones, and a lonely alley filled with No Ones. It's December 26th.
[Cordelia] (forgive inaccurate timestamps. Guess who doesn't proofread her posts? Meeee!)
[August] For those with no family, Christmas wasn't nearly as stressful. No one to cook for - no one to make the house spotless for and no one but a small child to impress; thus, the blessed few days passed without much mention or fuss.
However, the holidays were great for one thing: tips. What better way to save a little cash than to get an extra job? So, by some bit of luck, or fate - the bar which Cordelia and Ivan chose just happened to be the one that the very unlucky Miss Grant was working this evening.
Her blonde hair was neatly curled and pulled back. Her makeup was tasteful but dark enough to be attractive in the dim lighting. Her black shirt with the bars logo was purposefully stretched a little much over her chest and her short black skirt showed off her shapely long legs. She wasn't the girl at the door - but was busily fluttering from table to table within.
[Kristiana Coleman] She's only a little underage, but that isn't what the ID she gleefully presents at the door of the club says. She doesn't have much cash, but this is a girl who's used to not having to buy her own drinks.
The jacket is kept on even after she enters the warm building, and she shivers as she pushes her way closer to the bar itself
[Izzy Montoya] Someone apparently didn't get the memo, because her phone rings. She snatches the phone from her belt, checks the number on the caller ID. And here, we find Izzy expressing her discontent with such a turn of events, with an eloquence others only dream of as she stops walking, takes a drink of her coffee, swallows, and barks:
"Jesus, Mary, mother of FUCK this had better be good, Finn, or I will rip your fucking intestines through your goddamn nose with a pair of motherfucking pliers."
Merry Christmas, Finn.
She listens, then, and closes her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "What about O'Higgens? Barnes? Fuckin' Donnally?" She grinds her teeth, audibly, and then huffs a breath through her nose, and looks down the street toward the dumpster in question. Her answer is softer, now, tempered with something dangerously close to understanding. "Yeah. alright. Alfuckinright, I said. I got it. Send the bus, I'm just down the block. Tell Shannon I said hello, and kiss the kids for me."
John is gone on a long undercover assignment, and away from home. She lives alone, has no kids, no family. She is on Christmas duty - has been for days, and will be for at least one more night, it seems. She takes another long drink of her coffee, and heads down the street toward the dead hooker in the alleyway.
[Ivan] Truth be told, Ivan's been a little scarce this last month. He hasn't shown up at nightclubs to buy everyone drinks. He hasn't thrown lavish, decadent parties at his flat and invited every young, hot, rich -- pick at least two -- person in the city. Calls and messages have gone largely unreturned, though that's not in and of itself such an unusual occurrence.
Still: a noticeable lack of Ivan Press at the country clubs and the nightclubs for the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Maybe he was actually, god forbid, spending some time with his family. Christmas Eve, though, and he's back with a vengeance -- party after party after party for the last forty-eight hours, from skyscraper charity casinos to underground raves, ending up...
well, here. Bursting in the door with his entourage of two mean-looking, tattooed, Slavic fellows, one sharp, black-eyed woman in her thirties, and a good many more young, leggy runway models, dancers, starved swans -- all giggling and shivering in their miniskirts and close-cut, fashionable, not-at-all-warm jackets. Most of the group appear to be half-, nearly-, or still-drunk. They crowd unapologetically into the bar, the big russians shoving the unwary aside. Ivan, at the nucleus of it all, drops a cigarette -- slim, black -- on the floor and grinds it out under his heel as he walks in.
"Benno!" He greets the bartender like he knows him. "Make sure my friends here have whatever they want. Kolya, Evgeny, let's clear out a couple tables here and ... this chunk of the bar here."
He waves his hands seemingly at random. Kolya and Evgeny -- aforementioned large tattooed Russians -- move forward to start evacuating sections of the bar and the adjacent tables. August is about to collect her tip off a table of drunken frat boys who flirted with her all fucking night when they get forcibly ousted by the bigger of the two. So much for that tip. Kristiana is about to slide onto a barstool when some giggling, wasted backrow dancer from the chicago ballet steals it almost literally from under her and seats herself.
[peek] [Mind if I join?]
to August, Cordelia, Ivan, Izzy Montoya, Kristiana Coleman
[Kristiana Coleman] She yelps as she falls to the floor instead of landing on the chosen stool. Her foot reaches to hook around the leg of the stool, well toned legs giving a hard yank to pull it out from under the slip of a drunken girl.
[August] And god damnit, she flirted back. What a waste of a frickin night. August eyed the large man like she really didn't appreciate the move, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she just collected the glasses off of the now evacuated table and brought them back to the bar.
When she returned a moment later with a clean bar rag and began to wipe the various dribbles of alcohol and crumbs off of the table, she leaned over it a little more than perhaps was propper {she lost her last tips.. time to earn new ones!}. Lightly hued lips curled into a smile as she glanced back up at the large Slavic man.
A few coasters went down on the table. "What can I get you gentlemen..?"
[Cordelia] There are a lot of people in the bar. Cordelia takes note of the people that she can see most readily- she can admire an athlete from a far. Something about Kristiana makes her think of gymnasts- being small, compact, and blonde. Maybe Cordelia feels some kind of draw to blondes- being that she is one- but she takes her time and stands. She plans on changing her position and, instead, maybe getting a word in with her, until-
Until aforemention gymnast is ousted from what would-have-been her barstool. Wonderful ambition, but poor landing and her ass hits the ground. Cordelia winces and continues on over anyway. No better time than the prsent. She passes the dancer from the Chicago ballet, gives her a once over- and realizes that she's gained five pounds. Knows exactly where it's gone and feels a pang of what might be envy. No matter. Cordelia finally gets close enough to Kristiana to offer a hand.
"Don't feel bad," she says. Her voice is distinctly cented. Very much not from the United States, but not nordic. More Latin, "girls on the back row in the ballet tend to be lacking in graces. Social, physical, blahblahblah."
---
As it turns out, Izzy's initial approach towards said bar was right on the way to the dead hooker. In some way it was dehumanizing to call this, or describe this, as just another scene of the crime. Izz Montoya probably sees dozens of these. The woman works for Chicago PD, of course she'll see a lot of this. When she makes it there, she sees a strappy heel- one broken, the other not. She sees a security guard standing there- he's not very tall and he's round. He looks cold.
"Hey.. uh... so... you're with Chicago PD... right? You're here for Chloe?"
[Kristiana Coleman] She lets out an explosion of curses in Russian, directed toward the ousted dancer as she accepts the help back to her feet. She rights the stool, then settles on it with a daring gaze at the ballerina before offering a polite smile to Cordelia.
"Thank you. Let me buy you a drink?"
[Izzy Montoya] She approaches the ally with something akin to determination. The exhaustion in her step is gone, now there is only business - though it can't be erased from her eyes, the circles below givng lie to the awake and business quality in her voice as she surveys the scene.
"Yeah. Detective Montoya. CPD." She digs in her pocket and pulls out her badge, shaking out the chain so that she can drape it over her neck, pulling her hair free so that it falls down over her shoulders again. She gives the Security guard a once over, but without the disdain that others might have. "And you are....?"
She won't forget his name.
"What have we got?" It's a question among equals, though she outranks him in training and job and experience and age. She needs to know what he knows, though she's already checking out the scene, callously drinking her coffee at the same time, as if seeing the dead no longer has the ability to turn her stomach.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Some women, they enter a room and people notice.
Katherine was one of those women. It might have been because she walked in and the room feel invisible fingers stifle their ability to breathe a little; tightening like a noose around their necks; perhaps this made her frightening to some, intimidating to others; all the more alluring to yet another. Nobody would accuse her of being a drab creature, the Silver Fang. Were she not what she were to so many; Elder; Philodox; Sister; she would still be a fetching thing in her white coat and gloves; in her heeled boots and with her hair elegantly strung about her face; the rest of it clipped back from her neck.
Honor's Compass was not here tonight, slipping into the bar as if she were to be entirely ignored; Katherine Bellamonte was. She did not seem to care so very much that others were surrounding her on every side; pushing; beating against her awareness.
Instead; the Half Moon stalks over to the bar and sets her gloves before her; signaling for the barkeeper's attention.
[Ivan] The two large fellows and the one woman who seems to have more than a half-dozen neurons in her head settle at the table once occupied by frat boys. August comes to take their order and is met by two of stony, blank stares from the men. Either they didn't speak English, or they pretended not to. It's the woman -- possessed of a sort of angular, dark, solemn beauty -- who answers her, "Two bottles of Zyr, ice cold, and three glasses. A bucket of ice on the side. Thank you."
There's a sudden uproar at the bar. A scuffle over a barstool: a skinny drunk ballerina falling on her bony ass with a cry, more outraged than genuinely hurt. Evgeny's head snaps around to see what was the matter. Then he laughs, harsh and barking. "Glupaya shlyuha. Obsluzhivaet yee pravo."
Kolya, the taller and broader and milder of the two, "Bud&+697;te vezhlivy."
The voice that addresses Kristiana most directly comes from behind her, though. There's a lot of Russian flying around amidst the newcomers, but this one speaks perfect English with just a touch of WASPy, upper-east-side accent:
"Well, that wasn't very nice."
Ivan leans against the bar behind her. It's hard to say when or how he got here: he's a no-moon, after all, accustomed to moving unseen. Silent even when he doesn't try to be. His eyes are on the rest of the bar, surveying his friends, his entourage. A few of the girls have convinced some of the other patrons to clear out room for them. We wanna dance! Tables are being shoved aside; an impromptu dance floor is opening up.
The Silver Fang's eyes turn to Kristiana, finally. They are a mutable hazel, green and gold and blue and grey threaded in, and they inspect her for a moment. Then he extends an elegant hand.
"Ivan Kirillevich." Ee-vahn, he pronounces it. Then his eyes shift past Kristiana; he smiles all at once. "Cordelia. You made it."
[Katherine Bellamonte] The Silver Fang Elder takes note of the buzz of activity focused on the No Moon's party; raises an eyebrow and leans her weight on one arm; turning her head in the other direction while she awaits her drink.
[Kristiana Coleman] "I'm not a nice person."
She answers before turning around, eyes widening at the Fang, breath noticeably catching before she makes the very deliberate effort to look as unimpressed with him as humanly possible. She doesn't bother offering her name as his gaze quickly goes beyond her, though she does bristle a bit at what she obviously sees as an offense.
[Cordelia] Her eyebrows shoot up, and instead of looking confused at the prospect of not understanding exactly what came out of Kristiana's mouth, she looks excited. Like someone gave her a fucked up Rubic's cube or asked her for a famous Shakespearian palendrome. She can't wipe that expression off her face so easily. It takes some doing.
"I suppose," she tells her, "only if I get to buy you a drink. I'm Cordelia."
Short e. Cor-deh-lia, not Cor-dee-lia.
"I have a friend wedged in somewhere with the flock of twigs," says the pot about the kettles. She turns in time to see that friend emerge. She grins, the right half of her mouth upturns more than the left, "when have I ever turned you down for drinks? Everyone knows Bruce Wayne throws the best parties."
---
"Uh," he starts. She's digging for her badge, and for once he has time to turn around and look at the scene. Izzy is asking him what they have there. He inhales and looks at the trashcan again. He rubs the back of his head, "officer David Wallach- Price Companies and Security... uh... we have... a caucasian female, aged wenty-seven, red hair, brown eyes, been on premise for... for..."
he exhales and looks own again. He focuses on the ground.
"Approximately three hours, anticipated cause of death is blunt force trauma to the head."
[August] "Sure, no problem." She grinned, tossed a few napkins down and turned to return to the bar to fill the order. She didn't much care if they didn't want to chat.. they didn't exactly look like the most friendly crowd anyway.
The order was placed and after a hushed word with the bartender, the pretty blonde Coggie shifted her hazel gaze to the girl who ended up upon the floor. She nodded slightly and brushed passed the now thinning crowd to make her way over to Kristiana. "Honey, are you ok?" Her smile was warm and tone obviously indicated that she really did want to know the answer to the question.
As for Cordelia beside her.. August didn't even recognize the bombshell that stepped out this evening..
And while waiting for an answer, August catches sight of Kate sitting not far off. A hand rose in greeting - she'd make her way over there in a short while to say hello.
[Kristiana Coleman] Bruce.... Look at the woman, Krist. Her attention tears from Ivan with obvious effort, and she musters another quick smile for Cordelia
"Nice to meet you. Kristiana."
She offers a hand, twisting to do so in a way that keeps her from putting her back to the man on the other side of her
[Bridget Simone] The world can change instantly for a young woman in her early twenties. One minute, you could belong to a family and the next you're turning tricks. The next she could be dead in an alley. For one unclaimed kinfolk of Stag, the chips were up. For the first time in her entire life, she's come to realize that while life itself is fragile, Bridget has a powerful source of inner strength to draw upon. Most kinfolk would run away from the scuffle she was tangled in last week. Bridget did not. She did not flinch, did not cower. She grabbed a shotgun and went to work.
Not because she was terrified. Because no one had the right to take from her what was hers. Certainly, Bridget was terrified, but not more so than her exhileration, her righteous anger she felt at having her night interrupted. Things could have gone badly. She could be dead right now,
or in a Hive
But she isn't. The Black Spiral Dancers who attacked her and her Garou compatriates are dead or captured. No other truth Bridget has encountered in her sheltered life could make her feel more alive or more of a small part of the Nation she will forever be involved with because of her birth.
So what is a young Bon Vivant to do? Bridget cleaned up, polished up. She certainly can when she wants to. The thin young woman stalks like the creature she is, protected by a studded leather jacket she "found" at a bar. It does little to protect her from the cold, but it makes the scant black cocktail dress have the edge she needs to approach the club with a force of confidence and veracity she's never had before in her life.
Her clothes aren't fancy, she's clearly not rich. But Bridget works it well. The crowd doesn't part for her quite like the Garou, but the slip of a girl moves like a force nonetheless until she gets to where she wants to be.
Which is in the club, at the bar, hopefully with a drink in hand within two minutes.
[Izzy Montoya] [come on, Kahseeno! Gimme what I need... echo echo, who hears an echo?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8 (Failure at target 7)
[Izzy Montoya] [really? Fuck you, Kahseeno!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 5, 8, 10 (Failure at target 8) Re-rolls: 1
[Izzy Montoya] [hahahaha.]
[Izzy Montoya] She has something of a soft spot for newbies, though she'd never EVER let it be known. It shows in little ways though, like the patience with which she listens to his stammering report, the way she doesn't insist that he look at the body, the way she doesn't scoff at the fact he's a security guard rather than a cop. She listens - shockingly enough, she listens well, despite the propensity to run her own mouth - and nods when he's done.
"Thank you, Officer Wallach. The meat wagon is on the way. Think you can wrangle me up another cup of coffee in the meantime?" She lets him off the hook, gives her permission to leave the scene. Its not what he is trained to deal with. It is, unfortunately, her job. "This one is cold as fuck, and I need the caffeine"
She drains the last swallow and goes to toss it automatically in the trash - and stops at the last minute. She is that tired. She digs for her notebook then, and writes down what she'd been told in indescripable shorthand, and goes to work.
Which for her, involves listening. Closely.
And gets, exactly, nothing. Nothing but static. She is far too exhausted to run lead on this - but she's all they got. She scrubs her face with her hand, and works the scene the old fashioned way, as she waits for the others - and her coffee.
[Cordelia] Izzy Montoya doesn't hear anything for once. No evidence but beating hears and scuttling rats.
[Ivan] "Doubtlessly," Ivan parries, effortless, before turning his attentions to the girl once termed duckling by a fellow Silver Fang. He regards her a moment too, considers both her unusually undorkish appearance and her, well, offer to Kristiana. Then he smirks.
"You look uncommonly good," Ivan says. "I see you've finally converted to contacts. We need a secret language, you know. Let's learn ... Hungarian. Then we can plot to engage this lovely not-so-nice girl in a ménage à trois without her having the slightest suspicion of our nefarious plans."
At the end, Ivan turns away: Benno, or whatever the bartender's name is, has slid up his drink. He picks it up, tosses it down, and then turns back to quirk a laconic eyebrow at Kristiana.
"Of course, now that you're in the know -- interested?"
[Cordelia] David Wallach nods, and his first few steps are backwards facing. He looks at the body, and he turns to head down the street to get the cop her cup of coffee this Scene was going ot be an interesting one to work. Or, conversley, it would be like any other body dump or angry john. Too damned many of these. Time marches on.
Eventually, the security officer returns with her coffee a few minutes before the meat wagon actually gets there.
"What happens from here?" he asks.
[Kristiana Coleman] (Sorry!) She smiles at the waitress, managing to mostly hide the jealousy she feels at the woman's perfect form in tight clothes.
"I'm fine, thanks. I appreciate it."
[Kristiana Coleman] The poor, sheltered Kin gapes at Ivan for a full thirty seconds before she manages to gather her composure again. Desperately scrambling to hide the fact that she's shocked, she nods as casually as she can manage and decides to call his bluff before reason can kick in.
"Sure. I have a hotel room"
[August] The blonde server/kin nodded to Kristiana.. "Ok darlin.. but if you decide you want an ice pack, you let me know, ok?" And with a reassuring pat on her arm she dodged past the patrons towards the bar.
Everynow and then she could be caught doin' a little dance to the beat of the music - the girl seemed happy enough and seemed to like her job.. even if the assholes who didn't speak English stole her tips..
Speaking of.. she gathered their bottles, glassses and bucket of ice and returned to the table. Neatly she set them down, smiled.. and simply snuck back out of the way before they could ask for anything else.
"Katherine?" August smiled as she stepped up behind the stunning Silver Fang.
[Izzy Montoya] While he was gone, Izzy has gone about her business, canvassing the scene, marking what little evidence has been found, what small things will give them a clue as to who did what to the girl. It's one of hundreds she has worked before - and she will simply come back tomorrow to see if she can confirm any of it through other, more usual means. When she's rested.
He returns, and she takes the cup of coffee with a little sound of appreciation, taking a swig of it before it even has the chance to cool. It burns her tongue, but she doesn't care. "Well, you're gonna give me your phone number, so that I can call you later."
From anyone else, it would be a blatant come on. From Izzy, it's just her job. For now. "In case we have further questions. When the meat wagon arrives, they'll process the body, and the other officers, who will arrive with them, will finish processing the scene. I'll gather up everything found tomorrow, and then we'll see if we can find out who did this."
She doesn't say that it's likely a lost cause, that it won't happen. Very few people care about dead hookers. She also doesn't say that she'll work it with just as much intensity that she would the highest profile killing either. But she will, because that is who she is.
[Cordelia] You look uncommonly good, he tells her.
"I've gotten fat," she informs him, "and we do need to learn Hungarian. Or Estonian. I've heard Estonian is a quick learn. At any rate, it sounds like a fabulous idea but- shit, Ivan, we should have come up with this plan to learn a secret language before roping adorable blondes into compromising positions."
A beat.
"Not that it matters, because she agreed, so really," she says. And shrugs. Either she was serious, kidding around, or was all about calling a called bluff, "and she's providing the hotel room. Everyone wins in this situation. Es verdad."
She nods.
[Kristiana Coleman] Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. She breaths in and out slowly, keeping the mostly serene smile fixed firmly on her face, and sneaking looks at Ivan as her attention is repeatedly pulled to him.
[Katherine Bellamonte] "Mm," the Silver Fang was mid-way through sipping a cocktail; the glass poised at her lips as she turns to half-face the Gaian Kinswoman; the pale blue eyes seemed borderline approachable, but for the hint of danger that swam about with Katherine's designer perfume like a shark amongst the reef fish.
"Good evening, Ms Grant," she tilted her head; "how are you faring amongst all the animals in the room?" There's the barest flick of her lip upward.
[Cordelia] "Do you have to call it the meat wagon," he asks. He doesn't look like he is going to get sick any time soon. His hands go to his pockets and he observes the outside of the trashcan. he looks at the ground. he looks at the walls. He doesn't touch anything. He doesn't venture inside. He rattles off his phone number, an address, some places people can reach him in case he needs to be reached.
"Be good to her," he says to Izzy, "Chloe's a nice girl, she is."
Is, not was.
"You... you got a good clearance rate, right?"
[August] Ah, but the known danger was more comfortable than the known threat that the others posed. She'd felt the slight hint of rage eminating off of Ivan - but didn't know who, nor what he was, so she'd gone out of her way to avoid him by passing on the opposite side of a table twice now.
"Good evening to you as well. Oh.." Hazel eyes flicked back towards the others. "Quite well, actually. Holiday business is good. How are you? Is your drink good?"
[Kristiana Coleman] She orders drinks to distract herself. Three more of whatever Ivan was drinking, one for each of them.
[August] (unknown* threat.. gah)
[Ivan] "Okay," Ivan says, and sets his emptied shotglass down with a decisive click. The new drink gets the same treatment: lift, gulp, down. "Let's go."
He hasn't even sat down yet, nor made an attempt to. Straightening from the bar, he catches the eye of the woman and two increasingly drunk men at the table -- tilts his head at the door, taps his wristwatch, then flashes three fingers. Be back at 3am. Something like that, anyway.
As for the rest of his twig-girls, his starved swans, whatever you might want to call them: four or five of them were dancing up on each other, mostly for the benefit of drunken onlookers. Two of them were sitting on Evgeny's lap, cooing over his tattoos. Ivan scarcely looks at them as he escorts Cordelia and Kristiana out of the crowded little bar, his hands warm at their backs.
"Now, we have a bit of predicament," he says as the door shuts behind them. "My car only has two seats. Do you think the two of you could stand sharing a seat for a few blocks?"
There are a good number of vehicles crowding the street in front of the bar: two Escalades, a Bentley, and a goddamn Bugatti Veyron. It's towards this last, of course, that Ivan makes a beeline, utterly ignoring the traffic cop glaring daggers while he writes tickets for doubleparking.
[Izzy Montoya] It finally clicks home that he knew the girl. She closes her eyes, briefly, and scrubs her hand across her face, as if doing so would wake her up more. She will sleep for a week, when the season is over. "My apologies, Officer Wallach. I've been going non-stop for about a week now, but that's no excuse. Do you know Chloe's last name?" Or her real one... "anything you can tell me about her would help."
She writes down his phone number, address, and the wealth of contact points she is given. Only then does she look up and meet his gaze, again. "Good doesn't even begin to describe it, Wallach. I'm the best goddamn homicide detective on the force, with the record to prove it. I'll find out what happened to your girl, here, or die trying."
and there's not a thing in that statement that is not the truth.
[Kristiana Coleman] She barely has time to gulp down the shot before she's escorted from the bar, coughing as the alcohol burns her throat. His warm hand on her back feels good through the thin jacket as the icy air surrounds her, and she unconsciously presses back into it.
[Bridget Simone] The bar is decidedly not her scene: the stick people are shallow, mean-looking bitches. They scrutinize her sky-high (but last season/not designer) shoes, but mostly that feral, hungry look that made her get along better with some of the Garou.
And speaking of depth, some tital fish plays at being a royal bitch and bumps into the Stag kin, who looks at once out of place and exactly where she should be. Her blood rings like a Celtic warcry, and it speaks in ways both subtle and obvious. The Stag kin whips around, tosses her chestnut mane, and glares at the tresspasser of her personal space.
"Va-t'en," she replies in a flat, dismissive tone. (Go away.)
She collects a tall drink, Three Wisemen Go Hunting. Not for the faint of heart, and apparently full of whiskey. Bridget notices a tall blonde swan she is familiar with and her eyes go alight as she makes her way over.
"Cordelia!" she cries. "I keep running into you."
[Cordelia] "Señor Kirillevich," which is odd to say, because she switches between Spanish an a close approximation of the way he'd pronounced a last name she's never heard before, "I hate to be one to say this... but... I think you would have better luck with said ménage à trois with you, Ms. Kristiana, and your tattooed friend than you would with the three of us."
Nicest way she could think of to put it. Doesn't stop her from getting in the car, though. Doesn't stop her from getting in anyway. Might as well get some air while they're at it.
"Lo siento."
[Cordelia] (ack! addendum!)
[Cordelia] She does linger for a minute, in time to call back to Bridget and she waves. The blonde, right before her sorries and her explanation of the whole predicament, calls back.
"Bridget!" it's followed by a wave, "I get around! I think the word is... ubiquitous!"
[Kristiana Coleman] Is the Kirillevich surname one that Krist would recognize as a Fang kin?
to Ivan
[Cordelia] For Izzy
"Daniels," he says, "Claire Daniels. She had a friend named Jones that she hung out with. And some crackhead that I never thought was much good. Royo or some shit, I don't know... never really liked her friends."
A beat passed.
"That's about all I know about her. She doesn't normally work this side of town, though, she was usually on the south side down by J and C liquor."
[Ivan] it's actually a patronymic -- it just means son-of-Kiril. Russian names are typically first name, patronymic, surname. but no, even if she knew his actual last name it's unlikely she'd recognize it as Fang. Ivan's family is not at all wellbred. just filthy rich. *LOL*
to Kristiana Coleman
[Kristiana Coleman] She relaxes marginally when Cordelia shoots down the threesome, but just as quickly starts to worry that she may still not be out in the clear. Still, the car is warm and she has her pepper spray in her bag... She's a big girl. She can take care of herself.
[Katherine Bellamonte] "It was lovely, I-" There's a discreet chirping vibration from the noble Fang's pocket and she lowers her gaze to it; casting August what must pass for reluctance from Katherine. "I must take this; excuse me, oui?"
She slips from the stool and out into the night air in a drift of Chanel and Rage almost as if she'd never been present to begin with.
[Sorry guys, I can handle double duty tonight with scenes! Enjoy, though!]
[August] "Yeah.. sure, take care." She smiled.. and simply went about her business. Afterall, she had a job and saying hello to people who might pass as friends, or at least aquaintances.. wasn't really part of it.
[Ivan] Ivan has the passenger-side door of his Veyron open. Two and a half million dollars' worth of horsepower crouched low on the asphalt, and the keys hooked around the little finger of one lean, golden playboy of a Fang. He pauses as Cordelia abruptly folds, so to speak, one dark eyebrow quirking up.
He doesn't bother to correct her usage of his patronymic. He gives her a moment's quiet regard instead, eyes unfathomable. Then, "Coward."
It's spoken so blandly it's hard to say if it's meant as insult or joke or -- simply a statement. He glances at Bridget as she chases Cordelia to the sidewalk, then turns his attention back to Kristiana. "What about you? Second thoughts?"
[Bridget Simone] The brunette reaches for the sole person she knows at this place, pushing through the crowd like a pro, ducking between patrons without spilling her drink. It's clear by the color in her cheeks that either this isn't her first drink, or the cold made her flush. The French Canadian looks between the tall swan, Kristiana, and Ivan-- the last of which is a tall drink of water to be sure.
She blinks a few times, but she doesn't seem toppled over by his rugged good looks. Some might wonder if she swings the other way; except some people around the caern know better. She's been hanging around with one of the Shadowlords quite a bit in the last few months... to a fault. People have started to notice, especially the new tribesmen who wandered into Chicago from some corner of the world.
So maybe she's just trying to save face by not getting into that sort of trouble with guys who are not part of her tribe. As for Ivan, his rage is far more subtle so she may not recognize him even as a Garou immediately.
Bridget links her arm with the blonde Silver Fang kin who is the only other kinfolk she's spent any significant amount of time with. She needs this: to be around other kinfolk, to not be plagued by the constant reminder of Rage and duty, to forget for a little while that regardless of how well she fought that day last week, she will always be less-- Far Less-- than the least of the Garou.
[Cordelia] [Excuse me, Mister Press? Per+empathy]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]
to Ivan
[Kristiana Coleman] Second. Third. Twenty eighth. But good Gaia is he rich... She amps up the smile, tossing her blond hair just so.
"Why not? What kind of car is this?"
[Ivan] [can't read my, can't read my po-oker face!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
to Cordelia
[Ivan] [1 net success gets you: his mood is actually sort of dark right now. impatient and tempestuous. she can't begin to guess at the hows or whys or her own level of involvement.]
to Cordelia
[August] And with.. seemingly most of the others now standing out on the sidewalk, August returned her attention to the Slavic men who 'didn't speak English' and the scary looking female. She was polite, friendly and seemed to want to make sure they were happy with their drinks. She'd make sure they had whatever they wanted (especially if she caught sight of the spendy car outside..)..
"You guys doing alright?"
[Cordelia] [What does my pride say... WP -1]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 4, 5, 6, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)
to Ivan
[Cordelia] She looks at him for a good chunk of time... we say this, but right now thirty seconds seems like an eternity. Her eyes narrow slightly. It's notable at the corners, harder to see now that she isn't really wearing her glasses.
"Oh and he knows how to push my buttons," she says, "fine. If there's room, fine, if not? That's fine too."
[Ivan] "It's a Bugatti Veyron, kotyonok," Ivan replies, offering her a hand as she slips into the ultra-lowslung passenger's seat, "and it's very, very fast."
It's a world of dark leather inside. Even someone who knows absolutely nothing of cars can sense the money involved. Every texture, every surface looks luxurious, expensive, well-made. The car seats only two, but it's wide and low and heavy, the bulk of its size and weight made up of a massive engine, a drivetrain that can endure the stresses of two, two hundred fifty miles an hour of speed.
Cordelia changes her mind after all. Ivan's eyebrow flicks up again; he scoffs. "Come on, then." He nods at her friend, "Is she coming too, or are we ditching her?"
While Cordelia makes up her mind, presumably, he removes a slim cigarette case from the breast pocket of his wine-colored shirt. He's a little underdressed for the weather -- a modern-cut silk suit, no tie, no outer coat -- but he hardly expects to stand around long. He lights up a Sobranie and then circles around to the driver's side to get in.
Inside the Veyron, the doors and windows shut all extraneous sound out. He offers his cigarettes to Kristiana mutely. He doesn't fit the car, but he complements it: tall and lean, goldenskinned, with hair like ripened grain and its shadows -- dappled gold and dark. A lean, aristocratic face. A russian brow, and intense eyes. Whether Kristiana takes a cigarette or not, he starts up the engine, then thumbs down the passenger window.
"Last call," he drawls. "If you're coming, come along."
[Kristiana Coleman] Kristiana knows a great deal about expensive things, and can spot them at fifty yards. She settles into the seat as if it was made just for her, eyes taking in every detail of the interior as he continues a conversation that she's paying very little attention to now. Look at him. He can't possibly be a killer. She has absolutely zero chance of ending up in a barrel or in pieces on the side of the road if she goes on one little ride with him. Besides, he's gorgeous. Refined. Rich... She takes the cigarette with another smile, this one easier as the shot makes it's way through her bloodstream.
[Cordelia] "Bridget- crazy sexual escapades with Ivan Press and a couple of random blondes. In or out?"
[Izzy Montoya] Wallach walks away, as Izzy looks over her notes. When the mea... hearse arrives, and the examiners go about the business of dealing with the dead, she does as promised. "Hey - easy there. She's someone's daughter, someone's friend. think of that before you manhandle her like a sack of bones, will ya?"
She glares down the looks of shock on their faces, until they do as she asks, without asking questions of their own. She out ranks them, and she looks like she might just pass out on her feet right there where she stands. It's sheer determination that gets her through these last bits of canvasing the scene.
That, and the promise of a stiff drink inside.
"Hey Jones - you work southside, right? She look familiar?"
There is comfort in repetition, in work, in getting through another scene. This is her second home, where she feels most herself, most in control, and under her leadership, the girl is quickly taken care of - respectfully - and on her way to the morgue.
[Kristiana Coleman] Shes torn between praying that they come, and praying they don't. She won't have to do all that tiresome competing for attention if they stay. On the other hand if they come, she can likely escape that awkward "No, I have to stay a virgin until I'm married, and no I can't explain why" conversation.
[Bridget Simone] Bridget looks to Cordelia with confusion. She doesn't quite know what's going on from her puzzled expression. She downs the whiskey before someone can yell at her for having an open container outside, and sets her drink down on the cement.
The Stag kin pushes her hair back from her face and looks to the Spanish swan.
"Dois-je aller? On dirait une fête privée." (Should I go? Looks like a private party) The French Canadian remembers that Cordelia's English isn't her strong suit, so she indulges the girl by speaking in a language they're both comfortably fluent in.
After the explanation comes, Bridget crooks an eyebrow and shakes her head.
"No thanks, I'm already in enough trouble for nearly shacking up with a Shadowlord. Maybe next time," she laughs and waves her hand. "I'll see you later."
[Cordelia] "C'est probablement pour le mieux. Il est d'humeur bizarre," she replies, and with that piles into the car. The expensive car. The fast car.
[Kristiana Coleman] Her eyes get HUGE at the mention of a Shadowlord. Both the open, casual reference and the implication of who's company she might be in cause a minor panic attack, which she tries to cover by smoking her cigarette. Her head nods just slightly at Cordelia's words.
[August] {Someone poke me if people go back into the bar}
to Bridget Simone, Cordelia, Ivan, Kristiana Coleman
[Bridget Simone] The Stag kin scampers off to go find some other way of getting into trouble. She's good at that.
But she's also equally good at getting out of trouble. And like the cat, she has nine times to die.
[Ivan] The assemblage finally sorts itself out into going-not-going categories. Ivan shuts the window, leaving only the basso snarl of the engine and road noise transduced through the thin, wide racing tires. Catching a glimpse of Kristiana's shocked expression as he pulls away from -- well, not so much from the curb as from the Mazda trapped against the curb by his doubleparking -- he laughs under his breath.
"Oh, don't look so frightened. You're born into a tribe of mad kings, and it's the shadow lords you're afraid of?" Pause. "Where's your hotel?"
[Bridget Simone] [addendum]
[Bridget Simone] [oh, nvm. later. fun scene. thx guys.]
[Kristiana Coleman] "How did you know?" She frowns for a half second, lowering her window to toss the cigarette out without so much as a puff. "City Suites. Who are you?"
[Cordelia] For now, she keeps quiet and is content to listen and let the male field the questions. For now, she's watching. She's listening, and she's paying attention. The female doesn't slouch. She just pays attention to what's going on. Occasionally, she sends a text message, but for now her mouth is shut and she is paying attention. Her eyes stay narrowed; Cordelia's looking for behavioral cues.
[Ivan] Ivan drags off his cigarette, which is slim and black and very, very fine, but the inside of the Veyron doesn't smell like smoke. Must not smoke in here often, then. Either that or he gets it reupholstered every time he does. That sort of expense, that sort of casual extravagance, wouldn't be beyond him.
City Suites, says Kristiana, followed by a question. Ivan ignores the question for the moment, punching the hotel name into the GPS instead. He's not a taxi driver. He doesn't recognize hotels by name. The navigation spits out a route, and he follows it, cutting slower cars off with negligent ease.
An answer, finally, "I told you already. Ivan Kirillevich." That's Russian. "Ivan Press." That's English. The pronunciation is markedly different; both are perfect. He takes another drag off his cigarette, and then that goes out the window too. A brief suction on their ears as the glass comes back up.
"And I know," he continues, "because I happen to be one of the mad kings. But let's not let politics and politesse get in the way, shall we? Let's agree to a bit of discreet fun and leave the introductions and family trees to one of Madame la Bellamonte's socials. Fair enough?"
[Kristiana Coleman] She huddles into her jacket, reaching to turn the heat up, fingertips brushing the customized interior lovingly. "&+1042;&+1087;&+1086;&+1083;&+1085;&+1077; &+1089;&+1087;&+1088;&+1072;&+1074;&+1077;&+1076;&+1083;&+1080;&+1074;&+1086;. Is this car yours?
[Cordelia] She's watching. One can not consider her a hard woman or a harsh woman or anything of the sort because she's not. Her eyes flicker to the outside passenger mirror, and she watches as the scenery zips behind them. Cordelia purses her lips. She even croses her legs at the ankle and scoots over enough so that she's a little closer to the door and less on top of Kristiana.
The Russian goes over her head, and she starts finding herself looking for cognates or something that sounds like something she speaks.
"One of you needs to teach me Russian," she remarks idly. Says nothing about being discreet and living introductions and family lines to Katherine Bellamonte.
[Kristiana Coleman] "J'ai dit qu'il est assez juste." She slips into the French just as easily, suddenly thankful for the hellish studying.
[Cordelia] "Je parle six langues et est très rare que l'un d'eux utiles. En particulier l'anglais. Il ne parle pas français, si. Non pas que je suis au courant. Je suis inquiet pour vous. Je ne veux pas que cela soit quelque chose que vous faites, car un bel homme avec trop d'argent a flirté avec vous dans un bar. C'est exactement ce que Ivan ne," her French comes entirely too easily and entirely too comfortably. It's not accented, not hinted with bits of Spanish here and there.
No, her French and her Spanish are distinct. Which is more than one could say for her Spanish and her English.
[Ivan] "Or we can just speak English," Ivan replies, sardonic, "seeing as how she doesn't speak Russian, and I don't speak French, but we all seem to have plain, dull, American-ese in common."
A flick of a glance toward Kristiana, then, and a low scoff of a laugh. "Of course," he says, as though he couldn't fathom driving a car that didn't belong to him. It's the assurance of the truly privileged. Perhaps Kristiana's own background isn't quite so esteemed for her to have to ask. Perhaps her family ranked amongst those unfortunates of the Fangs that the Presses so very nearly became themselves -- wellbred but penniless.
No matter, though. The Presses went the other way. Rich as god. Breeding rapidly downspiraling to nothing. To Glass Walker blood and, god forbid, Shadow Lord blood.
It's a bit of a drive, Lake View to downtown. Ivan handles the car easily despite god knows how many drinks. The interior warms up; the road rolls by. "New to town then, are you?" Ivan inquires of Kristiana with a glance toward her too-thin clothing. "You'll need more armor than that if you're going to survive a Chicago winter."
[Kristiana Coleman] "Je n'ai pas l'intention de faire quoi que ce soit. Non pas qu'il a besoin de savoir que pour le moment." She looks to Cordelia with a smile, then to Ivan
"&+1052;&+1086;&+1078;&+1077;&+1090; &+1073;&+1099;&+1090;&+1100;, &+1082;&+1088;&+1072;&+1089;&+1080;&+1074;&+1099;&+1081; &+1084;&+1091;&+1078;&+1095;&+1080;&+1085;&+1072; &+1073;&+1091;&+1076;&+1077;&+1090; &+1082;&+1091;&+1087;&+1080;&+1090;&+1100; &+1084;&+1085;&+1077; &+1095;&+1090;&+1086;-&+1090;&+1086; &+1090;&+1077;&+1087;&+1083;&+1086;&+1077;." She seems pleased with herself, thinking she has a small but important advantage here.
[Ivan] [i am so sorry folks! my screen wasn't refreshing! i was like WHAT'S TAKING SO LONG.]
[Kristiana Coleman] (YOOOOOOOOOOU were taking so long! :D )
[Cordelia] "From what I've seen, Chicago is cold," she says, like this thought still, on some level, shakes her. Who really knows where Cordelia comes from. They know she comes from Spain. The thing is, though, she doesn't look like she's from Spain. She doesn't look like a lot of things, come to think of it. She doesn't talk about her parents frequently, except to perhaps lord the thought of her mother's approval or disapproval over people's heads.
No, no. When she speaks of her family, she speaks of that voluntarily mateless Philodox. Some pillar of honor who has all but halted her progress in the nation. Some say being an Adren is a terminal rank- sometimes, people get there and they stop progressing entirely. They stagnate. Who knows what the issue with Inez is, but it obviously doesn't stop her from comandeering her sister's living room in a foreign country. We digress.
Cordelia never talks about her father, except to fawningly refer to her Papi or her Padre and remain blissfully clueless. she hasn't had enough to drink for this, has nothing to blame her decisions on except herself, and... really... maybe she likes it that way. Obviously, her family hasn't fallen into obscurity. Obviously, she isn't hurting for income. No one asks how. No one cares... or, rather, those who would care are a continent away.
"Your French is good," she compliments Kristiana.
[Cordelia] (oh man, I just refreshed! Sorry!)
[Kristiana Coleman] "So is yours" The advantage is negated if they all switch to English, but she's willing to play along. "And Ivan's Russian is very good as well."
[Ivan] A slightly longer glance, though the act of driving means he has to look back at the road sooner rather than later. "Careful," he admonishes Kristiana. "Asking for gifts implies a more permanent sort of arrangement. And come to think of it, I don't even know your name yet."
[Cordelia] "I studied French at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid," she says. Now, this is a little known, less cared about fact. Cordelia is educated. Cordelia isn't just educated, she is very well educated. She's easy to pass that on, but for now she is content to sit back and get on to listening again.
[Kristiana Coleman] "Does it?" She smiles at Ivan and feigns innocence. "Kristiana Anastasia Coleman. Of the California Colemans. Of the Coleman University Colemans." Maybe she's not such a poor country mouse after all...
[Ivan] "How fascinating," Ivan says drily, not sounding the least bit fascinated by Kristiana's ancestry, or Cordelia's education. His eyes flick to the rearview mirror, stay there a moment. Then, quite casually, he announces, "There's a police car behind us. One of you ladies may want to duck down so you don't get arrested for seatbelt violations in a moving vehicle or some such."
[Kristiana Coleman] She ducks down. Unfortunately, it's to the side, which puts her head in Ivan's lap.
[Cordelia] Cordelia, being the taller of the two, doesn't have to do the ducking. Instead, she crosses her legs and sits fairly comfortably where she is. The specifics of vehicular law in the United States flies straight over her head. Instead, she fakes playing cool and looks-
"... I know we just met, but if you get your hair caught in his zipper I'm never going to stop laughing about it," she says.
[Kristiana Coleman] She lets out a horrified squeak, but the threat of being pulled over and questioned by the police keep her where she is.
[Cordelia] "Oh come on, it's not like he bites. Just, don't make any sudden movements and hope that no one hits any speedbumps," she pats Kristiana on the back as comfortingly as she can.
[Ivan] Ivan's eyebrows hop up. "What an interesting way to duck," he observes, and then glances in the mirror again. "Maybe I should slow down and keep him behind us the whole way to the hotel. Give you a reason to stay down there, hm?"
A minivan passes them on the right. Two high school boys in the back are staring agog.
[Kristiana Coleman] She would die of embarrassment right there, but that would only lead to questions. "Where else was I supposed to go, in her lap?"
"
[Cordelia] "See, Ivan, I was trying to tell you that I don't think that she likes girls and this proves it. She'd rather have her head shoved down your crotch than anywhere near mine," she says. She feigns disappointment. Or maybe it's actual disappointment. It's kind of hard to tell, but it's the overdramatic sort that belongs on Telemundo.
The boys in the minivan get a Miss America wave.
[Ivan] "Come to think of it," Ivan replies to Kristiana, magnanimous, "I wouldn't mind watching that, either."
Another glance in the rearview mirror, then. Without sounding particularly relieved -- or sorry -- he says, "Oh, my mistake. It wasn't a police car after all." A pause, the corner of his mouth hooking up. "Don't know how I could have made the error."
Lane dividers bump under the wheels as Ivan heads for the exit. Downtown Chicago ahead of them: skyscrapers on the edge of the lake. Ivan takes a right on the street, heading for Kristiana's hotel.
[Kristiana Coleman] She sits up, scowling but far too timid a kin to say any of the things she's thinking. There is a slight muttering in Russian under her breath though, as she settles back in.
[Cordelia] "I would," she says, "I don't take well to being lumped into the realm of desperation groping. My ego is too fragile."
They're headed for the hotel, and Cordelia leans into the seat comfortably.
"I don't know, you could keep pretending there's a police car. I'm enjoying the space."
[Cordelia] Then, Kristiana settles back in. She grins at her, and again fakes disappointment.
"Aw."
[Kristiana Coleman] "I'm sure Ivan would rather see us all cozy"
[Cordelia] "So, what brought you into Chicago, if we're getting cosy," she asks. Doesn't seem to notice the lack of space between them and, instead, gets on to admiring the other female's profile.
[Kristiana Coleman] "My family thought that I might have a better chance of securing a suitable mate outside of my home Sept" No point trying to be coy about it, really.
[Cordelia] [This is my pokerface, look at it!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Cordelia] [and purebreed]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 10 (Failure at target 6)
[Ivan] They're nearing Kristiana's hotel now, the Veyron -- built for speeds so, so, so much faster than this -- rolling along broad avenues, snow-cloaked streets. Mate, Kristiana says, and Ivan is quiet a moment.
"What about what you want?" he asks, then. "Are you looking for a mate?"
[Kristiana Coleman] "Irrelevant." She busies herself with looking out the back window.
[Cordelia] "So... they chose... Chicago..." she looks at her. She takes a second, and inhales, "realitically, there's more opportunities for you in Chicago beyond finding a mate. Truth be told, there aren't a lot of members of our tribe here that are particularly eligible. If you're looking for someone who is more traditional you could talk to Matthieu- I could introduce you two later."
A beat.
"From what I've learned, though, is that this city lends itself to so many different opportunities and the tribe needs those who aren't afraid to chase their ambitions."
She gets through her little spiel, and Kristiana decries her wants irrelevant.
"Bullshit."
[Kristiana Coleman] "I would imagine that they were advised to send me here, or that someone else made the decision for them." Her eyes flicker to Cordelia, then back out the window. "I have a duty to the tribe. We all have a duty to the tribe."
[Ivan] "No," Ivan disagrees as well, politely but firmly, "it's completely relevant. If you're not looking for a mate, then I'll be happy to follow you to your room, with or without Cordelia. If you are, however, looking for a mate, then I sadly need to drop you off and bid you good night like a proper gentleman. I'll even give you the contact information for ... "
what was his name? Ivan's lean fingers snap once, twice, before Cordelia serendipitiously fills it in for him.
"... Matthieu de Ponceau, that's the one. Handsome fellow, though very longwinded. Stuff a sock in his mouth and I'm sure you'll make beautiful babies together."
Well. At least he's honest about his intentions.
[Kristiana Coleman] She pales a little, and looks almost sick for a moment. "I have a duty." She sounds less vehement about it now, though.
[Cordelia] "He's actually fairly nice," she says, "we share a house. And his views and mine are completely opposed, if you find that to be any sort of comfort. Chicago es... not a very traditional city, though. Not bad, just different."
[Kristiana Coleman] "I'm sure that he's lovely. I look forward to meeting him." Her eyes flicker to Ivan, looking him over quickly, and she sounds like she may well be looking forward to anesthesia-free amputation more.
[Ivan] "Oh, come on, Cordelia. He's a bore," Ivan retorts with a short, sharp laugh. "Which makes him perfect for true devotion to duty, I suppose."
The Veyron pulls to a stop. City Suites, Chicago. Ivan reaches out, punching the OFF button on his in-dash navigation, and nods Kristiana at the facade of her hotel.
"There you are, kotyonok. Safe and sound and home."
[Kristiana Coleman] "You could come in. There's a mini bar..." The blanket invitation covers both of them neatly, and she either conveniently forgot what Ivan said, or has made a decision already.
[Ivan] Ivan stares for a second, eyes sharp, intense, penetrating. Then, with a shrug that his intrinsic grace makes elegant, he flicks the engine off and unstraps the seatbelt. "If that's what you want," he replies. "Just don't forget later that you wanted it."
The Bugatti is left where it is: doubleparked, blocking in a Cadillac and a Lexus. Ask him if he cares. The driverside door shuts behind him. The engine's in the back, obscenely huge and taking up every ounce of space; the trunk is relegated to the front hood, so tiny that it would be difficult to fit more than a garment bag in there. Fortunately, Ivan just has an overcoat there, which he removes before sweeping the passenger-side door open for Kristiana and Cordelia.
[Cordelia] She looks at Ivan again, and her eyebrows pull together for a second and her eyes narrow slightly. The expression drops from being confused and incredulous to... well... nothing. She smiles at Kristiana, "sounds fun."
She gets out of the car, and lingers by the male for a second. Words might be exchanged, but whatever she says is in a fairly low pitch. She's looked directly at him. Unwavering, undaunted. Resolute.
[Kristiana Coleman] She clamors out to unfold herself fully and scramble off the other woman's lap. Then after mustering as much haughty grace as she can, she's breezing toward the lobby doors and gesturing the others along.
[Cordelia] "What is with you tonight? What's wrong?"
Giving no room for the option that nothing might be wrong.
to Ivan
[Ivan] As Kristiana steps out of the car, Ivan settles his overcoat on her shoulders. Then he's detained -- the Spanish blonde stopping him and murmuring to him. Her stare is too direct, too challenging, for it to be anything close to a proposition. Words of love. Anything of the sort.
He looks right at her. He replies, and then laughs, and then he steps away from her and follows Kristiana.
[Ivan] "Something has to be wrong for me to want to fuck? What world do you live in, Cordelia?" -- insert laugh here.
to Cordelia
[Kristiana Coleman] She manages to look impatient as she stands in the doorway, though it's the doorman and not her who has to hold it. "Are you coming? They can have someone park your car if you want."
[Ivan] [brb in 10 min - jumping in the shower!]
[Cordelia] She doesn't have time to reply. He laughs, and she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Doesn't reach her shoulders, doesn't reach most of her body until she reminds it that it, too, needs to lie. Better than her words, better than whatever she hasn't said. She takes a second, and straightens up, adopts a comfortable smile, adopts a more relaxed demeanor. Cordelia heads inside.
"I'm letting the warm air out, I know, I know," she says.
[Ivan] [empathy!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Cordelia
[Cordelia] [You can't read my pokerface!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
to Ivan
[Ivan] "Of course I'm coming," Ivan replies. He catches up to Kristiana, taking the door from her with one hand, sliding the other arm around her waist. Against hers, his body is long and lean and firm. "And the car can stay there."
It's abruptly warmer in the lobby. This is an old hotel, one with history. A Fangish establishment, too mannerly for anyone to stare at Kristiana coming in with a sleek stranger or two. Not a very Ivanesque establishment, all told -- he's the sort that likes to get penthouse suites at Trump Tower. Young. Modern. Flashy. Reckless. At the elevators, he punches the button and then waits for the car to arrive.
"What floor?"
[Kristiana Coleman] "Ten." She looks apprehensive for a brief moment before she forges on.
[Cordelia] She follows along to the elevator, and keeps an appropriate amount of distance. She isn't invading space, she isn't making physical contact. If anything, she had the close detachment of a lanky, somewhat attractive bodyguard. She looks at Kristiana again, her eyebrows knit together and Cordelia's hands find her pockets.
[Kristiana Coleman] The chorus of What Are You Doing? chimes on in her head as she waits for the elevator, allowing herself to lean into the arm around her waist with what she hopes is enough casual disinterest to hide her growing nerves.
[Ivan] Ivan ushers Kristiana into the elevator as the doors open. As Cordelia follows, detached and watchful, the Silver Fang glances at her and gives a short, impatient exhale.
"Cordelia," he asks directly, "tell the truth. Are you following to cockblock?"
The vulgarity is sudden, the ease with which it rolls off Ivan's silver tongue -- jarring.
[Cordelia] [how bad is this gonna be...]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Cordelia] [per+empathy: give me a weak spot...]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]
to Ivan
[Ivan] [counterroll!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 4, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)
to Cordelia
[Cordelia] [this is an important roll.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)
[Cordelia] "Yep," she tells him, "because, obviously you aren't watching her fidget, and stammer, and look so shaken up that she's having doubts before she hits her door that she has to mention the damn minibar to get the courage in her to do this. And you are being an ass. And you can't even pretend to be interested in where she's from or anything about her long enough to get past your entitled boy who owns the world shit-"
She is livid. Or, at the very least, she seems livid. Livid enough that she throws her purse on the ground because it keeps her from throwing it at him
"-you know what? I don't even know why I'm fucking bothering with you, because you don't exist outside of fighting and fucking so how could you possibly think outside of yourself for five minutes. Or, oh, I don't know, maybe you haven't had to deal with someone who comes home after bullshit like this."
She speaks behind gritted teeth and, at this point, she's looking for a fire exit because she doesn't want to be anywhere near this place. She half grumbles. More like growls. her eyes are watering, and she wipes them quickly.
"Just don't forget later that you wanted it- fuck you."
She kicks her purse into the hall and doesn't even bother to pick it up. She just walks away.
[Kristiana Coleman] Her eyes are the size of dinner plates by the time Cordelia is done, and she's blushing a bright enough red to nearly match the festive decorations that still adorn the hotel. Her eyes pin to the floor, breath held as she tries desperately to look like she's not fidgety or stammery or shaken up.
[Ivan] "Hold on a second."
Here's the truly infuriating thing: Ivan's tone hasn't changed a bit. He sounds level. Cool. Terribly, terribly bored.
"You don't get to do that. You don't get to throw a fit and walk away. Turn around and listen.
"You asked me earlier what was 'with me'. Do you want to know what's with me, Cordelia? I'll tell you. I'm bored, Cordelia. I'm bored of you playing the butterfly to my wheel. I'm tired of you casting me as the bad boy so you can feel like the saint. You're no saint, Señorita, even if you liked to pretend to be one with Christian. Saints don't play good little miss to their boyfriends while they jump naked into showers with me."
The elevator doors try to close. Ivan shoves them back with a crisp, savage swing of his arm.
"And," he continues, tone utterly unruffled, "I'm also sick of you playing the moth to my flame. I'm tired of you coming around again and again just so you can feel a little bit alive, but never take the plunge. You're not a sinner either, Cordelia, even if you like to pretend to be one with me. And I frankly have better things to do, prettier girls to fuck, than waste my time pretending to corrupt you."
The elevator doors give another abortive attempt at closing. Are barred again.
"Now, Kristiana here," Ivan adds. "Maybe she's making the biggest mistake of her life right now. Maybe not. Either way, she's an adult making her own damn choices. You? You're just a coward sitting on the fence."
A beat. He glances at Kristiana, unwrapping his arm from around her at last. He lowers his tone -- whether or not Cordelia overhears, the words are for her.
"If you don't want to go through with this, I'll understand."
[Kristiana Coleman] And when it seemed like her eyes couldn't get any bigger, there they go. She sucks on her bottom lip for a moment, eyes finally coming off of the floor to dart between the two as she tries to figure out what the hell she's gotten herself in the middle of.
[Kristiana Coleman] "Let's just go upstairs." She doesn't know what she wants, but she's positive that being in the middle of a screaming match in the hotel she has to live in is not it.
[Cordelia] She turns around and looks at him.
"Then stop playing the fucking game, Ivan. If you're sick of playing badboy, then stop living it, and I was drunk Ivan. Okay? Drunk. Do you think I would have done that if I were sober? You think I'm not entitled to make a mistake?"
She looks at him, she's holding her pocketbook and she just... looks at him. Not like she's angry, not like she's upset, but like she's tired. Like she's burning her candle at both ends.
"And who the fuck are you to say that I don't feel alive, hmmn? You know who's a coward? I'm not the one who is throwing themselves into party after party after night after bottle after battle. I'm not the one who is filling their life up with things. What about your pack? What about actually doing something with that inbred fucking glory we all have? You wanted to know who I am? You wanted to know?
"This is who I am, Ivan. I'm a girl who is fed up with trying to please you whiney, entitled, trueborn brats. I'm a woman who is done trying to fucking please you people so I can burn out on and be some fucking incubator. I'm a part time dyke, I'm a full time dance instructor, and I'm confused, I'm angry and I've had enough of this. I'm done being passive and I'm done with you.
"When you're ready to get over yourself, call me, until then don't bother," she tells him. She steps to the hallway and is headed to the stairs, "and don't you dare Christian up again."
[Kristiana Coleman] "Ivan. Let's. Go. Upstairs." She somehow manages to sound commanding and pleading all at once, and eyes the elevator buttons for something to keep her gaze off of Cordelia. That these two have some sort of history is beyond obvious, and the reasons for questioning where her impromptu decisions might lead are multiplying by the second.
[Ivan] Ivan, alas, is as unswayed by one kin as he is by the other. He doesn't so much as glance at Kristiana until he's had his say --
"Cordelia, you mistake me. I have no desire to change, and I've never pretended to be anything but what I am. Entitled. Selfish. Uninterested. Uncommitted. An ass -- I'll own up to all that. I'm up front about who and what I am, and I always have been. You're the one playing different parts to different people. You're the one who can't decide who and what you want to be, and when someone finally calls you on it, you retreat behind the oldest excuse of all.
"I'm drunk. I didn't know what I was doing.
"Cry me a river, Cordelia. If you've finally grown up, then learn to take responsibility. If you've finally figured out who you are, then my sincerest congratulations to you. But have yourself a good life, and keep your damage to yourself."
By now, an elevator door alarm is ringing quietly but insistently, urging them to let the elevator move already. Ivan has the good graces to let the lady have the final word, if she wants it: he waits to see if Cordelia has any parting shots before he lets the doors close.
[Cordelia] She doesn't have any parting shots. She just takes her purse, and straightens her spine. Her posture is a wonderful mockery of being eloquent and elegant. With that, she takes a theatrical bow. The last thing he sees is her smile, something tear streaked and liberated. She leaves the hotel with her head high, and when she makes it to the lobby-
the pride isn't an act anymore.
[Cordelia] (aight loves, I have posted out! Thank you so much for the scene, I had soooo much fun!)
[Ivan] [thanks for the RP!]
[Kristiana Coleman] (Thanks!)
[Kristiana Coleman] She waits, breath held, finally reaching to tug at Ivan's sleeve to get him to let the elevator close.
[Ivan] Cordelia departs. Ivan lowers his arm. The elevator door finally slides shut -- slowly, as though wounded by its prolonged opening -- and the alarm rings until it's fully shut.
Then Ivan pushes the button for the tenth floor. The ground lifts beneath their feet. As they rise, Ivan glances at Kristiana.
"I think I should walk you to your door and say goodnight," he says. "You're having second thoughts, and the chances of us being together and mated and happy six months from now is nonexistent. The chances of you deciding you were drunk, made a mistake, and now need to dramatically bow out of my life," wry, that, "are significantly higher."
[Kristiana Coleman] "I'm not drunk. And I don't want to be mated to you." She stares straight ahead, arms crossing. "Are you involved with her?"
[Ivan] "No." He doesn't even hesitate; no shock, no shame, no beating around the bush. "We fooled around once or twice. I never even fucked her." A pause. "I am fucking the girl you toppled on the floor at the bar, though. And one of the other ones -- the brunette with the big mouth."
[Kristiana Coleman] She's quiet until the elevator reaches the tenth floor, doors sliding open silently. "Alright." She steps out, key card and ID pulled from her back pocket, either leaving it up to him if he follows or just expecting that he will as she makes her way down the hall to her suite.
[Ivan] He's taken that coat he draped briefly over her shoulders for the trek from car to lobby back by now. As Kristiana departs the elevator, Ivan watches her go for a moment. Then he slings the coat over his shoulder and follows. Neither of them say a word now.
[Kristiana Coleman] She does a startling amount of thinking between the elevator and her room halfway down the hall. About duty and honor, about well behaved kin and even more well behaved Garou, and about smiling, happy babies and the look of hopelessness that always seems to fill the eyes of their mothers. The keycard is inserted and pulled out, and she holds the door open behind her on the way into her suite.
"Would you like a drink, then? Help yourself" She gestures to the mini bar, leaning down to pull a bottle of water from the fridge for herself.
[Ivan] Behind her, Ivan's footsteps are almost soundless. He's a Ragabash, after all, and whatever else he might be, whatever uncharitable name or label one might rightfully assign to him, he's a good one. Silent. Deadly in the shadows. His palm makes a faint whisper over the wood of the door; other than that, the only sound is the click as it closes.
She offers him a drink. The corner of his mouth moves, then settles. He shakes his head; looks past her at the window, the street outside. This hotel sits a little ways out of the swanky heart of the city. It's located in a neighborhood one might call colorful if one was being polite; a little scary if one was being truthful. Not that Ivan had much to be afraid of. Lean as he is, golden as he is, rich and overprivileged and begging for an asskicking as he is,
there's a beast flickering behind his eyes. And any would-be mugger would end up a splash of red on the pavement.
That savagery is there when he looks back to Kristiana. He crosses the room to her, and his footsteps here are as silent as anywhere else. He stops in front of her, half an arm's reach away, perhaps less. Ivan is quite tall, an inch or two over six feet, and his shoulders are wide, but there's an unmistakable grace and subtlety to his body. He is not bulky. He is not built. He is graceful and svelte, balanced and quick, like a cat or a siberian sable.
His fingers are warm and strong when they comb into her hair; stroke back over her scalp, cradle the back of her head.
"I want you," he says, and most men would stop there; but not Ivan, "to take off your clothes. So I can lay you down. And eat you out."
[Kristiana Coleman] She takes a long drink of the water, eyes closing when his fingers rake through her hair. There's a long pause after he speaks before she opens her eyes to make sure that she's got his attention.
"I've never done this before. You should just know that." She pulls herself from his light grasp, setting the water bottle down and quickly undressing before she can talk herself out of it.
[Ivan] He was so precise about his instructions: step by step, laid out like stones in that even, cultured voice of his that's so at odds with the filth he can give voice to. He was so exact, so precise, that one might wonder if he already knew. Certainly already guessed at inexperience and uncertainty.
Still; it gives him a moment's pause. He runs his hand through her hair again while he's thinking -- thoughts flickering in his mutable eyes, unnameable.
"You realize if it's a traditional, upstanding Fang mate you want, your worth to him and his family will be greatly diminished if you're no longer virgin?"
[Kristiana Coleman] She nods, brushing her hair back as she stands naked before him with surprisingly little shame. "I know. One of the few conversations my mother bothered to have with me was how much more I was worth if I were pure." Part of her begins to panic as she thinks through the possible implications of this reckless choice, but it's smothered by the angry tone of the other woman's even angrier words. "I know what I'm doing"
[Ivan] If Ivan were a better man, he might at least ask about Kristiana's background. The Colemans. This mother who rarely talks to her. Might want to know what, exactly, is driving this reckless -- some might say self-destructive -- behavior.
Might ask her what she thinks this will do, exactly. This little act of rebellion that might reap a lifetime's worth of trouble. One night of half-sordid pleasure, and out the window go her chances of bagging some valorous Athro, some noble Elder, even, out of his mind with the purity of his own blood, with four buried mates and a dozen kin children already, who'll want to rut with her until he sires his heir on her,
but only if she was a virgin.
Maybe that's why Ivan doesn't ask. He thinks he knows why she's doing this. He knows what kinswomen are worth, and how and why; he knows that a lovely, wellbred kin who's neither virgin nor proven fertile is fit only to be the mate of an Adren at best, and one whose previous mate died suspiciously at that.
He knows that at his rank and with his family's tawdry, nouveau-riche history, even the likes of that would be out of his reach. The likes of Kristiana being mated to him -- as likely as stars falling in his backyard.
But she's not here because she wants a mate. Certainly not because she loves him. She's here because --
well. She said it herself. She speaks of purity. Worth. She says, I know what I'm doing.
Ivan looks at her a moment. He puts both his hands on her face, then, and he kisses her very gently, lingeringly, deeply; like he means it. He's not enough of a gentleman to walk away, but he is, apparently, enough of a gentleman to do what he claims never to do: make a pretense. Pretend to care.
And there's this, at least. He's gentle with her. He's not some drunken boor from a bar, pawing at her, too inebriated to even realize she's untouched. He does what he promised: bends her over the edge of the bed and eats her out, uses his hands on her, his tongue, shows her just why those gold-digging bimbos at the bar chase him around long after it's become apparent he'll never ever marry them. He brings her off again on his hand when he moves over her, when he finally enters her
it's slow, and gentle, and he lets her hold onto him until the worst of the pain is past.
He has the good grace to wear a rubber. He has the good grace to touch her while he's fucking her; isn't so egotistical as to expect a virgin to derive any pleasure out of penetration alone.
Only toward the end does he pick up the pace. Move with any ferocity at all. Only at the end does he grab her hip, pull her up to receive him, bite a groan back behind his teeth.
Afterward, he rolls off her when his heartbeat slows, snapping the condom off and disposing of it in the bedside wastebasket. Then he lies there side by side with her, his lower leg loosely crossing hers. They're both bare; his body is long and lean as one might expect. His musculature is elegant and subtle -- an intimation of strength beneath his smooth skin. His hand traces delicate, shameless strokes between her legs, long fingers moving over her cunt as though to soothe her.
"Thank you," he says after a while. "That was lovely."
[Kristiana Coleman] She's quiet for several long seconds after, adjusting to the fading pain and the growing sense of having broken every rule she's so carefully lived by. Her breathing is still ragged, throat scratchy from the loud screams that he coaxed out of her.
Finally twisting onto her side to face him, she captures his hand between her muscular thighs and traps it against her as she gives him a slight smile. "Lovely? What an interesting term." She raises up on one arm, the fingers of the other hand tracing lazy circles across his chest and down his abdomen. "I would tell you that you were amazing, but I don't have anything to compare it to, and I suspect that you've heard it enough that it wouldn't make a difference. I wouldn't be opposed to trying it again sometime, though."
She rests her chin on his shoulder, eyes taking in every feature. "Thank you."
[Kristiana Coleman] "How does the gossip mill work around here?" She relaxes her thighs to let him pull his hand away, but keeps her chin on his shoulder. "Is everyone going to know that I brought you home before I've even made my introductions?"
[Ivan] Briefly, Ivan's clear brow knits. He stares at the ceiling while she traces patterns on his body. She suggests trying it again, and then inquires about the rumormill. After a beat, the frown evaporates in a quiet laugh, and he shifts his head on his cradling hand to look at her.
"I don't kiss and tell," he says. "But Cordelia might tattle, and Katherine was at the bar tonight. She seemed otherwise occupied, but she's sharper than she looks. That said, she's not so traditional as your family seems to be, we're both Fangs, and neither of us are mated. I doubt she'll have much to complain about."
[Ivan] "That said," he adds, "I wouldn't flaunt it in her face. Might shock her into a reaction."
He sits up, then, and snags his pants off the floor. Out comes his wallet, and out of his wallet comes his calling card -- ultrahip, not paper at all but a thin slice of round-edged translucent green plastic embossed with nothing more than a string of digits.
"Call me if you're looking for some fun," he says. "I should probably get back before my friends start wondering where I've gone."
[Kristiana Coleman] "Get back." There's a half second where she looks absolutely crushed, but she covers up the disappointment with practiced ease and a smile. "Of course. I don't have..." She takes the car and waves it, then busies herself with putting it on the nightstand just so. "I can just text you"
She sits up and pulls the sheets up around her, fingers raking through her hair again as she defaults to manners and good breeding. "Goodnight, Ivan. It was nice to meet you."
[Ivan] He's adept at dressing quickly. One supposes a man like him would be. He slips on his socks and shoes, steps into his underwear, buttons his shirt and pulls on his slacks. Buckles his belt. Gathers jacket and coat, his wallet and his keys while she rakes her hair into some semblance of order.
"Likewise," he returns warmly, either failing to see that flash of devastation or simply choosing not to respond. "I'll get in touch with you later and give you Katherine's contact information. She can put you in touch with the rest of the tribe."
He's polite enough not to mention Matthieu immediately. Not to herd her back into her predestined life of honorable matehood and one cub after another until she was exhausted, a shell, dead. That life is there, though -- she has to feel the weight of it, whether or not she's revolted against it tonight.
Neither of them mention it. Or anything about the future beside a few vague plans to 'try this again'. Instead, there's just this: "Goodnight, Kristiana."
[Kristiana Coleman] "Goodnight, Ivan" She lets him show himself out, curling onto her side after the door closes and blinking back threatening tears before she finally forces herself up and into a hot shower to scrub his scent off of her.
be like the deer.
6 years ago